Daddy Dearest
by ImmortalObsession
Summary: It is 1895 in England. Purebloods are the supremacy. Dumbledore rules them all. Lord Malfoy, one of his many devout followers, has a daughter no one has ever seen. The daughter herself, Hermione Malfoy, never questions the strict rules standing between her and everyone else – that is, until Master Riddle arrives and makes her think twice. AU/OOC/Rated M for dark themes.
1. A Door

**AN: EEK! I've been wanting to post this story for the past month, and it's finally up. *omfg flippin' over here* **

**Happy days, guys. Happy days.**

**A few quick notes before y'all going tromping off though: first, _Daddy Dearest _is AU. It takes place in Victorian England. It is M-rated. It is dark, although not to the point of depressing everyone beyond reconcilation and making your brains melt (I hope). There will be abuse (not very graphic) and lemons (totally graphic!), as well as some violence eventually. The characters are also different from the original series and definitely OOC - but they're also kind of the same. For instance, Hermione is very submissive at the beginning - as most women are during this era - but there's plenty room for change. :)**

**And insanity.**

***evil cackle***

* * *

_"Never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."_

― Jane Austen, _Emma_

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_September of 1895_

It rained hard outside. She thought it might be nice to take a walk, to feel the drizzle and his pitter-patter skip across her skin, to be soaked through to the bone by it. Perhaps she could go now? But no, Lord Malfoy would not want her out alone in the dark without an escort, in the dark where something could be eagerly waiting to sink claws into a ripe piece of unsuspecting flesh.

Hermione turned away, back to her text on the effects of the Muggle's colonization of Africa, nearly obliterating all traces of black magic along with thousands of different cultures and billions of natives. She'd already finished the paper for her private tutor, Professor Umbridge, days ago, revised it twice, and yet it was still not due until next Monday. She felt restless.

What were the odds of her slipping into the library unnoticed tonight?

"Your bath is ready, m'lady," called her handmaid, Bridget, interrupting her thoughts. Bridget was Muggleborn and had been with them since Hermione's older brother Draco was born. She slept in the servant quarters downstairs behind the kitchens and had an affair with some halfblood – Jimmy, Hermione recalled – who worked at the owlery in Hogsmeade. She only knew because she had heard the servants gossiping about her dear handmaid one day as they dusted shelves in the family library.

And Hermione sent Bridget into town all the time, knowing full well her handmaid spent more time with her secret beau than she did picking up books and spoils for her lady from the local bakery. She didn't mind though.

Love was supposedly a sweet thing, wasn't it?

She dipped a toe into the bath water, warm like sunshine and reeking of roses, before going under. Bridget placed a fluffy towel at the nape of her neck so she could lay back and rest while all the unnecessary hair was plucked, ripped, and essentially removed from her body. It was a given that a lady be kept in pristine condition at all times.

But as Bridget fiercely stabbed along, she couldn't help thinking that it was a wretched law that deprived a Muggleborn a wand. The hair-removal process would be a dozen times less painful with a simple incantation whether than the dangerous-looking pair of silver tweezers her handmaid wielded presently. She kept these thoughts to herself, however. Lord Malfoy wouldn't want her getting 'ideas' into the Muggleborns' heads, lest they revolt and slip poison into their tea.

She half-wished one of them would poison hers.

"Is there anything else you need, m'lady?" said Bridget, once all the candles save for one were extinguished and the buttons doing up Hermione's nightgown were done. Her gnarled fingers smoothed out the wrinkles in her flour-spotted apron nervously, twitching up and down the starch-white fabric like skittish insects. "Warm milk? A story? Shall I open the window a bit? It is quite hot, like an oven in here-"

"Don't bother. The kitchen is all the way on the other side of the house, Cook is probably dead asleep, I haven't asked you to sing for me since I was nine, and I think the room very comfortable," Hermione said with faint amusement. "Go to bed, Bridget. Sleep."

Bridget curtsied, blushing. "Of course. Goodnight, m'lady."

The door shut behind her squeamish handmaid and she did not move for a moment, the familiar feeling of dread coiling behind her navel like a knot now. She crossed the floor to her bed and the heavy silk duvet whispered against the satin of her dress, but didn't make another sound as she waited.

And waited.

An hour and eighteen minutes later, approximately, the doorknob turned. "Angel," the silvery voice of her father murmured. "You are not asleep?"

"No." She did not break her position of prayer and spoke softly, murmuring "I'm not tired at all, daddy. I was just about to say my prayers to the Lord."

"I imagine He would not elude a sweet creature such as you of them, my dear." Lord Malfoy walked toward her in confident, self-assured strides, and his smile was merry. The lapels of his dress robes, pressed by the servants with Muggle irons and gleaming, were deep emerald. "And what of your loving father? Would you include him in your whisperings to above?"

"As always, daddy," she said solemnly.

He laughed. "Thank you, angel." His hand skimmed over her damp hair, careful not to recall to life the frizz that had been so painstakingly brushed into hiding. He kissed her head. Sighed into the curly strands. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, daddy." She kissed the heavy silver band circling his ring finger, right on their family crest, and resumed her faux stance. Lord Malfoy lingered a minute longer before leaving. The door shut without a sound.

But the sound of retreating footsteps was absent.

A prickle of nerves danced through her belly then. Hermione shut her eyes.

"_Lord Merlin, Shepherd my dad today_

_In green pastures let him lay_

_To still waters guide his way_

_Restoreth his soul," _she began in hush, trying not to tremble. _"I pray…"_

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_November of 1895_

Draco was bringing a friend home from school today.

Hermione was most unkindly astonished that he had any friends at all, although she'd heard her brother brag about all of his 'fellow Slytherins' often enough through family meals and gatherings. How utterly out of their mind, she wondered, did someone have to be to actually want to spend any more time than necessary with _her _brother?

Quite insane, she resolved.

"What was that, m'lady?" Bridget asked from the other side of the dressing screen, where she sat on a velvet footstool tweaking the hem of Hermione's dress. Her words were muffled by the sewing needle clenched between her yellowed teeth.

"I just said that I'm ready," she replied. "Could you tie my-?"

"Oh yes, of course, of course, m'lady." Bridget hastened around, the skirts of her uniform swinging and slapping Hermione's garters as she bustled up behind her. Hermione hummed a nursery rhyme.

"Such a lovely voice you have, m'lady," Bridget commented and Hermione's short song was cut off when the laces of her corset were yanked tight. She gasped sharply. "Yes yes, so very pleasant to the ear..."

"Not so tightly, Bridget," she squeaked_._ _Oh Lord Merlin._

Bridget loosened the ties with a hearty chortle. "Still breathing, m'lady?"

She smiled painfully. "Hardly."

Her handmaid laughed and finished fastening the silk ribbons up her back with a fluidness that came only from years of practice. Next, she helped her into a camisole, a knee-length chemise, her dress (a sandy-brown number that fit like flesh at the bosom and flared out in a dozen ruffles at the waist and thereafter), and fluffed the bustling crinoline before securing several petticoats on top of it. Hermione donned matching gloves and tried not to scratch her itchy high neckline.

The dress she donned was all the rage in Diagon Alley and the envy of Welsh, or so Lord Malfoy said when he bought it for her.

"M'lady, before leaving for Dumbledore's court this morning," said Bridget suddenly, "Lord Malfoy requested I tell you that you must stay in your chambers until Draco's guest departs."

Hermione frowned. Why did Lord Malfoy insist on reminding her? She had been expecting this. It was a rule (and one of many) to stay to her chambers whenever a guest came to the manor, and she never failed to abide by it. After all, it had been a rule ever since she turned thirteen and began to receive strange looks from her father's colleagues when they visited the manor for tea.

That, of course, was when _the mask_ was introduced.

"'Until'?" Hermione repeated. "You mean to say that they are already here and no one told me?" She met Bridget's small, watery eyes in the mirror with a second frown, and her handmaid's gaze darted away immediately.

It was forbidden for a Muggleborn and Pureblood to hold eye contact.

Hermione cleared her throat. "When did he arrive, our guest?"

"About two hours ago, m'lady."

"Ah. Thank you, Bridget. That will be all."

Her handmaid left with a quick curtsy and promise to be back with lunch. Once the door was shut, Hermione went over to her mahogany vanity and dug through the drawers, until producing a secret copy of _Paradise Lost. _The cover was Transfigured so that the Muggle text looked like nothing more than an etiquette pamphlet.

It was wrong of her to hold onto it. _Illegal._

But she had enjoyed the story too much to turn it in.

She let out a shallow huff. She was bored. It was difficult to draw breath, what with this painful whalebone cage tapering her ribs and stomach so that they came to a fashionable wasp-like waist - she swore the inventor of corsets was actually _attempting _to rearrange English ladies' internal organs when he devised the blasted contraption.

So Draco's guest was male, was he? She smiled to herself. Perhaps she could conveniently 'forget' someone was here at the manor and catch a glimpse of the mystery wizard in the hall? But no, she couldn't do that. Proper English ladies did not sneak around hoping to see gentleman... even if it had been so very long since Lord Malfoy last let her off the manor, since she saw a boy that was not her brother or cousin three times removed or some nephew of Narcissa's. Or anyone new at all.

"What would you do, Satan?" she muttered.

_Probably rebel, _her horned-figment of the imagination replied._ Throw another mutiny. Better to rule in hell than serve in-_

"Heaven," she finished, nodding. "A reasonable argument."

Thirty minutes later, her stomach was stirring uncomfortably and there was a knock on the door. She hid _Paradise Lost _quickly, dumping it in a drawer and slamming said drawer shut. "Bridget?" she said.

A beat of silence, followed by the clearing of a throat. It wasn't the squeaky, measly noise Bridget made when she cleared her bodily pathways though, for this sound was deep and clear.

It was most definitely _not _her handmaid.

"No, miss. Please have my deepest apologies for interrupting you" followed the voice after the sound, smoother than cream and bringing an involuntary shiver to her. She neared the door to hear it better. "I seem to have lost my way in your handsome home - it is quite a labyrinth, I confess." The handsome voice chuckled. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am a friend of Master Draco's, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I would appreciate it greatly if you showed me how to return to the downstairs parlor where he is surely looking for me."

_Tom Marvolo Riddle. _It wasn't a name she'd heard before, for Draco usually brought the names Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy into conversation. But never a Tom or a Riddle.

_He sounds very kind,_ she thought. And her eyes itched to see him, but the door between them might as well have been a brick wall for all her wanting. Rules were rules…

"Miss?"

_And made to be broken! _Satan hissed.

Lord Malfoy would lock her in a room for a week alone with Umbridge if he were to find out, but he never explicitly said that she couldn't _speak _to non-relatives, now did he? Only that he did not want his angel to be seen by any wandering eyes…

The wood burned her cheek like an iron from all her blushing. She took a breath, staring at the crystal doorknob intently. "How did you lose your way, Master Riddle?" Hermione finally said.

"I'm afraid I left your son to use the facilities." She could hear embarrassment in his quiet voice and it made him sound all the more enticing, the richer. But wait, _your son? _Her face somehow became hotter.

"He is my brother, actually, Master Riddle," she returned, and her heart beat fast as she waited for his response. She had never – _never _– spoken to a wizard without Lord Malfoy's eyes fasted to her, never to a wizard that was not at least twenty years her senior and who did not share the same last name as she.

It was exhilarating.

"I apologize, Lady…"

"Hermione."

"Lady Hermione."

Voldemort feigned surprise, although he had already known this. For he knew all there was to know about the prestigious Malfoy family, thanks to the Hogwarts archives and that mindless idiot Draco. He had even gone so far to memorize the basics of their ancient bloodline – names, interrelations, arranged marriages, and other useless facts that would allow him to woo the stuck-up Purebloods into inviting him to their home for an extended period.

But the sole gaping hole in his knowledge was the girl: Lord Malfoy's daughter.

Hermione Malfoy was all but a fairytale in silver lining. It was common knowledge that Lord Malfoy took his daughter to the opera house for her birthday once a year, and yet every curious onlooker present always failed to catch a glimpse of the elusive girl. Rumors said she rarely left Malfoy Manor, and that when she did, she wore a mysterious masquerade mask to hide her face - as if she were going to Mardi Gras or something equally extravagant. He thought the entire thing quite garish, but nonetheless, it was a family mystery.

And how very…intriguing…he found the Malfoy family.

After finally prying that idiot Draco off his back, he'd wandered the vast halls of Malfoy Manor and come across a chittery servant girl called Emma. It wasn't hard to get her to tell him where Lady Hermione's chambers were located 'out of curiosity' after a smile or two, and he was quite adamant to meet the Malfoy enigma. To do what others could not, to lay eyes on the beauty whispered about all through Hogsmeade and even Albus Dumbledore's Court when the mood struck. It would be the first of Lord Malfoy's secrets that he'd unveil.

And once the others followed, the Malfoy's perfect little world would go up in roaring flames.

"I hate to be so bothersome, but would you just show me which way I should go to return…?" trailed Master Riddle.

Bridget would be back soon. Hermione bit her lip. "Take a right, then left, and keep going left until you reach the main stairs. Go down to the first floor and you'll find our butler Thomas. He'll show you the rest of the way."

"My right or your right?"

Silence.

"Lady Hermione, couldn't you simply show me? Or point which way?"

"…your right," she finally replied. "Good day, Master Ri-"

"But won't you be joining us for dinner?"

"I apologize, but no. I take my meals in my room, Master Riddle."

_When there are guests, _Satan pointed out with a mocking grin.

"Ah." There was a note of surprise in that musical baritone. "Well, if I do not see you again tonight-" He would not."-will I see you at the opera?"

"I…" She paused. "What opera?"

"_The Calling. _The opening night is less than a month away, on December 31st. I would be pleased to see you there."

December 31st? Hermione thought with dismay. But her birthday had already passed in September! Lord Malfoy would never agree.

"Good day, Master Riddle," she repeated.

And the door creaked as the weight pressed hard on it eased, moving across the room to sit down at a desk and open books. Voldemort was sorely tempted to do away with polite conversation and false smiles, to simply cast a spell that would tear the obstructive wood to pieces and let him inside.

But good things came to those who waited.

And he had waited for such a very, very long time.

* * *

_the Hogsmeade Opera House, England_  
_December 31st of 1895_

Lord Malfoy exited the carriage first, waving away the chauffeur who stepped up to assist Hermione and turning to help his daughter out instead. He offered her his arm and she took it, smiling gently.

Laying his hand over her folded arm, Lord Malfoy guided them through the elegantly-dressed fray, back straight as a rod and haughty smirk in place. Hermione kept her chin tucked close to the space between her collarbones, eyes downward, glossy ringlets shining as she was guided through the women in silk and pearl necklaces that whispered as they passed and the men donning dress robes who gazed after her with dark eyes. Lord Malfoy said a word or two to Lord Black in passing, but they did not stop longer than a moment before going onward.

And then, she was finally ushered into a private balcony, far away from any other old money or aristocrats. It was curtained off so no one could see inside, so that only its occupants could view the vast, breathtaking stage below.

Lord Malfoy sat composed in their box and she stayed silent, too – although she was positively _aching_ to ask a thousand questions. For instance, what time was it and how much longer would it be until the show began? Was Master Riddle here? No, that was a stupid question. Of course he was. He had composed the entire opera after all; this she learned when she opened the Daily Prophet one morning and saw his dashingly handsome face splashed across the front page. Imagine her astonishment upon this discovery! But where was he? Backstage? Preparing for his debut?

Oh, how often she had replayed their conversation since the day he visited the manor. She must have lay in bed recalling the smooth voice at least a thousand times, admiring the newspaper clipping now stashed inside her corset. Had he forgotten her? Would Lord Malfoy remember to take her backstage for a tour, as promised, so that maybe she could catch a glimpse of Master Riddle? It was out of the question to talk to him, to look at him for more than a lone second, but she would take whatever Lord Merlin offered her. And who was starring in the play again? What orchestra was playing? Were they wonderful? Would she be able to hear them from up here? Surely, she would, for Lord Malfoy always got the best of everything no matter the occasion.

"Angel," her father himself said from her left, rousing her from her thoughts. "I've brought you a present."

Startled, Hermione turned to Lord Malfoy to see it, and as she did, she looked much like a rose blooming in frames, all silk petals and rustling fabrics swishing back and forth, here and there and altogether, to create something beautiful. She laughed good-humoredly. "I confess that I am not surprised by this - but you didn't have to, daddy."

"Don't be silly, my sweet." He smiled. "Would you like to see it?"

She confirmed this and he reached into his robes, producing a small thin box and theater pamphlet. "Here you are, angel," he said warmly, passing the treasures to her.

"The billet does not count, it came of no charge with the tickets," Lord Malfoy explained as she opened the box to reveal a sleek pair of opera glasses stowed in a bundle of silk. "But the glass was imported from Finland and belonged to Väinämöinen. It heightens your vision; you will see every intake of breath by the actors onstage, every flutter of fabric and inch of the sets."

"They must have cost a fortune," Hermione murmured, knowing her father took pleasure from these particular observations, and running her gloved fingers along the crystal-embedded frame appreciatively. His smile widened. "Thank you, daddy."

"You're welcome." He ran his hand over her head gently, careful not to hurt her or muss her hair. "I am pleased you like it, angel."

Lord Malfoy withdrew and began to survey the crowd below through his own glass, muttering about scandalous viscounts and bankrupt lords. Hermione carefully replaced her new present in its box and picked up the billet, flipping through it quickly.

Cygnus Black, Alecto Carrow, and Antonin Dolohov were the most prominent names starring in the show, which was sung completely in Italian and made her thankful Professor Umbridge, her tutor, insisted she become fluent in as many European languages as possible. The actors listed above played the leads and were to portray a complicated love-triangle only to realize neither brother loved the girl - for one simply wanted her body and the other her money. They scheme to trick the girl and get both, but she finds out about the ploy and in a fit of rage, murders both men.

For if the girl could not have them, no one could…

* * *

The opera was magnificent.

Alecto Carrow was a beautiful leading actress, vainer than Narcissus and so easy to manipulate it was painful to watch the D'Amour brothers trick her. Hermione had begun the show intending to watch Master Riddle closely, to see if he was as handsome on paper as he was in real life, and when he stepped out into the orchestra pit her heart had seized, as if clenched by an iron fist and wrought pitilessly by it. His beauty was almost unreal, from the gentle curl of dark hair just above his forehead down to his pressed black suit, and she blushed to know she'd spoken to such a man through a bedroom door just a little over a month ago. But then the lights dimmed and – well – the opera swept her so far away she forgot who she was.

_Master Riddle._

She hummed what she could remember of the finale. Remnants of Alecto Carrow's voice, lovelier than daybreak and sweet like maple syrup, echoed through her ears as she sat in a spare dressing room backstage. Lord Malfoy stood just outside of the room conversing with Lord Alphard Black, the father of one of the leads from the opera, and Professor Slughorn, a teacher from Draco's school Hogwarts. She could see the shine of her father's buffed leather shoes gleaming through the crack under the locked door.

Then, she heard it.

The voice.

"Gentlemen, I hope you are enjoying the wine?" came the smooth baritone, somehow managing to be far more enchanting than the music she had heard boom through the halls of the opera house for the last two and a half hours. Hermione straightened, staring at the door alertly. _Master Riddle!_

"Oh Tom, always the jokester, aren't you, m'boy?" chortled Slughorn, who sounded slightly more than a little intoxicated. "Yes, the wine is quite good, and the show – oh, the show was even better-"

"Yes, quite impressive," murmured Lord Malfoy and Lord Black repeated this, their appraisal of Master Riddle followed by the clink of glasses. Hermione's throat was bone-dry and she stood, soundlessly crossing the floor to get closer to the voice she would surely never hear again.

"Thank you, gentlemen, but you overestimate my abilities," Master Riddle said modestly. "None of this would have been possible without you're generous sponsoring, professor."

"Oh, it was no trouble, no trouble at all. I'm sure Dumbledore will be glad to accrue a fine fellow such as you once you leave Hogwarts. Oh, and an opera – oh, dear me, _an opera! _– is quite an impressive asset to your applications, Tom."

"Yes, professor," said Master Riddle duly. "I apologize, gentlemen, but I must be on my way…"

_No, not yet! _Hermione thought, a gasp involuntarily escaping her. She clapped two hands over her mouth immediately.

"Of course, of course, we understand perfectly, m'boy," Slughorn said jauntily, winking at his favorite student. His eyes were blood-shot. "You are quite popular tonight, aren't you? Oh, how pleased Dumbledore will be! Ah!"

Voldemort nodded and moved away from the trio of upper class snobs, past the stagehands and supporting actresses cradling their flower bouquets like they were trophies from the Triwizard Tournament. He had hoped to find the girl at Lord Malfoy's side when he invited that bigot backstage, had even heard she came tonight by word of mouth, and he was quite displeased to find she wasn't anywhere in sight.

But.

For a moment in conversation, he'd heard a peculiar sound, a sharp intake of breath from the makeup-festered depths of Lucia Erning's dressing room. He, for a fact, knew Lucia was with her family in the auditorium. He'd seen her share kisses and tight hugs his stomach rolled to see just minutes ago.

So who could have made the noise?

Deepening his suspicions, he recalled that Lord Malfoy had seemed to stand before the entrance to Lucia's room rather strangely, his cold, pale eyes watchful, the fingers on his half-empty glass of Firewhiskey a bit too stiff. He'd seemed…protective.

Hermione kept her eyes off the powder-clouded vanity she was seated at, tracing a gloved finger through a compact of rouge and staining the fabric. Lord Malfoy didn't allow her to wear makeup. The owner of this dressing room did not keep any books.

The door opened and she started, but not because she was surprised by the sound. It was rather because she was surprised by the _direction _from which the rasp of bolts came, not from behind her where Lord Malfoy still guarded the door and chatted with his colleagues, but to her left, hidden behind a velvet pouffe covered in bottles of fragrance and mascara tubes. It was a door she – and most certainly, Lord Malfoy – had failed to see before.

"_Blast_." A foot kicked aside the pouffe blocking entrance, knocking a whole avalanche of feminine products to the ground, and a man began to follow it. Hermione stumbled off her stool, eyes wide, and looked around the room frantically. For what, she didn't know. Should she scream? What would a heroine from one of her novels do in a situation like this? Look for a weapon? Cast a dangerous spell? Her wand lay halfway up her sleeve.

_Hex him, _Satan hissed, _before he hexes you, girl._

But it was too late to do anything now.

Air ceased to come when the man, now completely inside the room, brushed off the knees of his trousers and straightened. He looked just as surprised as she to find the both of them there in that cramped dressing room, and they stared at each other wordlessly, trapped in the startled glance, in the second-long pure bewilderment of being caught off guard.

It was Master Riddle.

Oh Lord Merlin, save her now, because he was even handsomer up close. His brows came at perfect sharp slants that gave him an air of constant alertness, of intent study, and dark eyes shielded by even darker lashes regarded her almost bashfully. His high cheekbones were so angular she wondered if the knife came up empty against them, unable to find any extra flesh to rake or flaws to scrape off...

"Lady Hermione?"

And then she remembered.

"You must leave!" she exclaimed, turning her already masked face to the floor and ignoring the burn in her bosom at the sound of his voice. "Right now, please."

"I…I apologize for barging in unprecendented, Lady Hermione. I truly did not know you were-" When he saw she did not respond, his voice faded. Hermione stared at the other door, the locked one with Lord Malfoy on the other side of it, intensely. What if Lord Malfoy were to walk in right now? What would he say? What would he _do? _

"You did not seem so distant the last time we spoke."

She pressed her lips together, staring at the door more firmly.

"Don't you recognize me? I am-"

"Master Riddle." She nodded curtly. "I do recall."

He waited and when she didn't offer anything more, said, "I am glad you came to the opera, Lady Hermione. Did you enjoy it?"

Ever so slightly, she nodded. He smiled, and out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him quickly before refocusing on the door. Lord Malfoy never let her speak to men without his direct supervision-

"Do you sing?"

Her brow furrowed. "No."

"Why not?"

"I just… I just don't, Master Riddle." She stiffened on finding him so close suddenly, a footstep away, an arm's width out of reach. "Master Riddle, please do not-"

"You should," he continued, condoning her plead. He stepped closer. She skittered a step back. "I could teach you, if you'd like."

Her head whipped up at this and she stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. No, Lord Malfoy would never agree…or would he? No, no, she should not even be considering this! This was improper. She should not be here, standing feet away from a young wizard while they were all alone in this dressing room, with not a chaperone or supervision of any sort anywhere in sight. If someone were to find out...

Well, the result would be catastrophic.

She darted a glance at the door – she could still hear her father speaking – Master Riddle saw her look, tauntingly saying, "Lord Malfoy would not object if you asked him, Lady Hermione. He never denies you."

She shook her head, hard.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"I... I do not commonly to speak to anyone other than close relatives outside of the manor, Master Riddle. If Lord Malfoy were to know of this, he would be quite disappointed in me," she admitted in such a hushed voice he had to lean in to hear her.

"Does Lord Malfoy forbid it?" Master Riddle inquired.

She gave him a wary look. "Yes. Which is why I ask you to leave me at this instant." And she pointed at the door he'd come in through, eyes pleading and soft through the mask she wore. But he did not pay her pleas mind. Voldemort felt smug that he had been able to entice the elusive Lady Hermione into attending his opera tonight, that she had not screamed at the sight of him stumbling in here like he half-expected, that she – the girl who never said a word - spoke to him face-to-face, that he was so close to seeing the beauty no eyes outside of the Malfoy line ever saw long enough to tell of.

Victory loomed ever closer.

"Would he forbid music lessons?" he ventured.

"Maybe not," Hermione said, fingering the pearl buttons on her glove nervously. "You have an excellent reputation, after all, and Lord Malfoy admires you very much."

"And you?"

She stared at him, confused. He saw her eyes were brown - and nothing of significance. "And I what, Master Riddle?"

He flashed a charming grin. "How do you feel about myself?"

"Oh." Her gaze wavered on his straight teeth before returning to her gloves. There was a flush creeping up her neck. "Well, I've read about you, Master Riddle. You are brilliant and the opera was wonderful..." Her words ended there, for she couldn't find it in her to go on. She'd never spoken to a boy her age that wasn't her short-tempered brother for such a substantial amount of time before, and she was not sure how to continue.

Hermione went stiff as a board when Master Riddle suddenly brushed his gloved thumb along the curve of her exposed cheek. The hands that wrote the music now roaring through her, that composed the songs and conducted the orchestra all throughout the show with a fine bone-white wand held delicately between fingers, now touched her like a feather.

And burned her hot like liquid silver.

"Lady Hermione-"

"You mustn't do that," she gasped, yanking away and stealing to the opposite side of the room like a terrified mouse fleeing from a fearsome house cat. "Please, Master Riddle, keep your hands to yourself."

"I apologize. I did not mean to offend you-"

"Just leave, Master Riddle," she interrupted. "Please."

But he did not and instead looked on at her, trying to catch her gaze, continuing to stare even when she kept her own eyes determinedly on the door. Her long neck and the gentle slopes of her compressed breasts caught his eyes then - the only part of her that wasn't covered by silk and buttons.

"I will go," he finally said softly, "but only if you promise me to ask Lord Malfoy for music lessons."

"I... excuse me?"

"I will tutor you, if you'd like. I could come to the manor on the Hogwarts Express with Draco on certain nights to give you lessons."

"Y-you are far too bold, Master Riddle," she stammered.

"I am aware." He smirked at her, eyes glittering mischievously. She looked away. "Is there an instrument you would like to play, Lady Hermione?" he queried.

"I have always liked the piano," she said timidly. "And the viola."

"I can play both, and teach you, should you request it."

"Lord Malfoy will say no, Master Riddle."

"Then I'll just have to convince him to say yes," Master Riddle said with that same confident smirk hovering on his lips. It was a disarming sort of smile. "Persuasion is one of my many talents, luckily... but you must ask him first if this is to work."

She hesitated. "If I may ask, Master Riddle, why do you even want to teach me? Aren't you quite busy with…all of this?" And she gestured to the opera house around them, to the bustling aristocrats outside and what remained of the devoted audience, to the world, to life and all the never-ending complexities within it.

"Do not worry about me, Lady Hermione, I have my reasons." He, finally at the door, looked to her once more. "You will ask him," he repeated.

She sighed. "Very well, Master Riddle."

"Good." His dark eyes lowered to the hands she anxiously twisted, tingling now under his gaze. A shadow passed through them. "May I kiss you goodbye, Lady Hermione?"

_No. _No, most definitely not. Lord Malfoy would throw a fit at the mere thought of the mention of such a question and Hermione knew much better than to agree to it. She was smart, not stupid.

But... she was also a girl.

A curious girl.

And he was very handsome, admittedly.

"You may, Master Riddle," she whispered.

Master Riddle – the attractive, intelligent, devilishly handsome Master Riddle – held her eyes fast as he bent over her hand. His mouth brushed the back of her glove ever so lightly and her corset seemed to clench ever tighter around her ribcage, stealing more of her breath as soft lips caressed her covered knuckles back and forth. Like a bow stroking a violin's strings.

"You smell like roses," he observed, running his nose over her wrist and drawing a shocked gasp from her when he nudged back the fabric slightly. She pulled away, flustered.

"Well then," said Hermione with a small, nervous smile. "Goodnight, Master Riddle. Congratulations on your debut."

"Thank you." He was courteous. "Until next time, Lady Hermione."

And he left.

Hermione leaned against the door Master Riddle had gone through, clutching her screaming ribs and taking deep breaths. Dots fluttered across her vision from lack of oxygen. The memory of Tom Marvolo Riddle's dark eyes stained her mind like footprints in the snow. Haunted her as she attempted to recompose herself.

Then there was Satan, rearing his ugly head and grinning at her cockily from his station in the ninth circle. _You're no different than Eve, are you, my dear? _he drawled.

She deigned the inquiry undeserving of an answer.

* * *

**AN: _Fin... _of the chapter. Thank you all for reading and please leave a review to tell me your thoughts. More characters and information on this little alternate universe are in the next update, so story alert DD if you want to read more. :) **

**KISSES!  
ImmortalObsession**


	2. Seven Days

**AN: WOW. Thank you all so much for the wonderful response to the last chapter! Your utter awesomeness is so blowing me away. ;) There were a bit of questions, some of which are answered in the chapter below, and others... will come all in good time. (_Muahaha!) _More characters, however, are certainly moving in on DD this update, as well as more time with freaky-protective-Lord-Malfoy and info on this wittle AU. **

**Yay!**

* * *

_"My father moved through theys of we,_

_singing each new leaf out of each tree_

_(and every child was sure that spring_

_danced when she heard my father sing)"_

– e.e. cummings, _my father moved through dooms of love_

* * *

_The misery of all when Psyche's father brought back this lamentable news can be imagined. They dressed the maiden as though for her death and carried her to the hill with greater sorrowing than if it had been to her tomb. But Psyche herself kept her courage…_

Hermione read avidly, a puddle of billowing skirts and scattered books on the floor of the ancient Malfoy library. Towering shelves filled the vast room in rows, the mustiest corners were lit by lamps, floating candles, and the occasional portrait of some centuries old ancestor in a gilded frame. Every now and then, a servant would come out of the deep aisles to dust shelves or polish a piece of silver, bowing low if they passed and wishing her a many good afternoons.

"Wat does tha say there, miss?" said a squeaky voice suddenly.

Hermione looked up, surprised, and blinked at the sight of a little girl in uniform standing just beside her. Her splitting red hair was in two braids and bursting out of her white cap, and she had a gap between her protruding front teeth. Squinty brown eyes stared at the book she held intently. "Tha there." The girl pointed. "Wat's it say, miss? Cur-has-is?"

"_Caresses_," Hermione corrected, instinctively. "It says caresses."

The girl rolled back on her heels, the flat soles of her shoes hitting the gleaming floor sharp and leaving it as she stretched all the way up to her toes, thinking. "Curesses, huh? Wat's tha then?"

"A caress is a gentle gesture made by your hand," she explained. "It's affectionate. Loving."

"Huh." The girl's heels tapped the floor again, like clanging cymbals clashing softly. "Watcha reading anyway, miss?"

"The story of Cupid and Psyche," she said. "Do you like to read?"

"I can' read fo the life o' me, miss. Only bits and pieces from…from before I came ere." The girl paused, glanced around quickly, and once satisfied no one was watching, continued in a whisper, "But I like me some stories. Sometimes, I even come in ere at nigh and try and read some o' the smaller ones. Don usually work though. I dunno enuff words and they ain't got pictures. I'm still tryin to learn 'ow to speak like you, Pureblood-like and proper and all at. One o' the older uns, Miss Jones, teaches me when all the work is finish'd."

"You shouldn't sneak in here at night," Hermione said, frowning. "It's good to read, but I hate to think what might happen if you were caught."

"But I've neva been caught, miss," the girl said excitedly. "So it's not likely I'll evah be caught neither. See, I'm very small – and quick, too – so if someun comes in I can hide or run out fast."

She smiled. "Well, so long as you have a plan."

"So wat was at 'curesses' bit about anyway?" the girl asked curiously. "In th' story, I mean."

"Let's see… _She was still in tears when her husband came and even his caresses could not check them._"

"Oh." The girl scratched her itchy cap. "I got anotha question, miss."

"Yes?"

"I wondered why it was you hide your face behind that silly mask?"

Hermione's face became very hot.

"Jamie, what are you doing out here?" A servant scrambled up from one of the many aisles and flew at the girl like an angry baboon, whacking her over the head with a feather duster. Jamie squealed. "Get back to your post this instant," she hissed. "You're supposed to be cleaning the tubs upstairs with the others."

"But I was talking to the miss here," Jamie protested, pointing. "See?"

"The 'miss'? What…?" And the servant froze, finding Hermione watching their exchange and blanching. She fell at once into a clumsy curtsy, mumbling, "I am so sorry, Lady Hermione. I had no idea you were here."

She cleared her throat. "It's quite alright." She looked at the little girl, smiling slightly. "Jamie, is it?"

Jamie nodded and at her watchful matron's scold, added, "Yes, miss."

"Lady Hermione is not a _miss_," the servant objected, scandalized. "She is a lady and you will call her so or so help me I'll hit you so hard you won't be able to sit down on your sore bottom for a week straight-"

"Well, lady, why is it you wear that silly mask?" said Jamie, scrunching up her eyes, and the servant next to her looked skyward as if searching for help from the great beyond. "Are you going to a party or somefin?"

"That's enough out of you, girl." The servant grasped the girl's shoulder, forcing her into a curtsy before plopping into one of her own. This was probably Miss Jones. "We are so sorry to disturb you, Lady Hermione. Excuse us." And they scurried away, Jamie glancing back more than once through the whacks of dusty feathers buffeted on her red head.

Hermione resumed her story.

'_We will be near,' they said, 'and carry you away with us when he is dead.'_

_Then they left her torn by doubt and distracted what to do. She loved him; he was her dear husband. No; he was a horrible serpent and she loathed him. She would kill him – She would not. She must have certainty – She did not want certainty. So all day long her thoughts fought with each other. When evening came, however, she had given the struggle up. One thing she was determined to do: she would see him. _

The bell of the grandfather clock tolled through the manor like a gong, pulling Hermione out of a particularly enthralling passage. She looked up with a sigh, but the exasperated breath cut short in her throat on seeing the time. The needles no longer pointed to two or even three o'clock, but to _four _o'clock. How could she lose track of the time? Where did it all go, so quickly?

Draco came home exactly twelve minutes ago.

Sixteen, if he was in one of his tempers.

She stood quickly, leaving her mess behind for the servants and hurrying out of the doors into the hall. She should have known better than to go out of her room without Bridget, than to play a game of chance and read in the library instead of the safety of her chambers. She should have known, she should have-

_Chin high, _Psyche instructed. _Keep your back straight. _

_Or draw that wand. _This from Satan, paired with a malicious grin and little snigger when Psyche sent him a look of pure poison.

"No, no, I can make it." She whisked down another hall and up the marble staircase. "I'll take the shortcut-" Rounding a corner. "-or wait in the drawing room until he-"

She froze.

At the sight of Draco Malfoy, Psyche took a double – and Hermione could hardly blame the lovely Greek maiden for it. With his fair hair fashionably smoothed back, the green-silver striped tie of his school uniform loosened and haughty smirk in place, her brother looked good as any Cupid with a rotten attitude. And although wariness touched her heart as he swaggered forward, it wasn't necessary to school her features into a blank mask – for she already wore one.

"My, my, look what we have here," Draco drawled, the pale eyes he inherited from their father flashing as he circled her. "It seems I've found a princess fallen out of her tower, a damsel in distress, the shut-in outside the cave." He grinned. "It is a lucky day, indeed."

She curtsied. "Good evening, Draco."

"_Good evening, Draco," _he mocked in a fluttery falsetto. He glowered at her. "Who do you think you're fooling? Or are you aiming for a new low, showing off for father when he isn't even here?"

"I'm sorry, Draco, I did not intend to-"

"Shut up." He tightened the band of his gold watch, once belonging to their great grandfather Lord Abraxas Malfoy, and regarded her suspiciously as he shucked off a cufflink next. "What are you doing out here anywhere, sister? Got bored of the same four walls?"

"I was reading."

"Aw, our little scholar. How proud daddy will be to know how you slave over your studies." He shook his head, disgusted. "I don't know what he sees in you. You're such a bore."

She was silent.

He considered her for a moment, taking in the black lace of the mask and earnest eyes, the darling curls and heart-shaped face, the erect pride of her spine, the worried pink lip and thin fingers, fluttering nervously in white silk casing. He didn't understand any of it.

He hated it all.

"Perhaps it is because you are such a delicate thing." He reached out, his hand hovering a breath over her covered cheek, and she stiffened as that hand moved to grab her chin. "Or maybe it's because you're so damn _quiet_."

He held her like that for another moment, buffed fingernails digging like pincers into her skin, pinching cruelly. He used to pinch her all the time when they were young, and although she never told Lord Malfoy, their father did eventually find out. And when he did, Draco's screams had echoed throughout the manor for hours on end.

Her brother learned to be more subtle after that.

But he also knew she would never tattle, and never failed to use that bit of information to his advantage.

"What's that odd look for?" Draco shook her, roughly. "Too good to speak to your lowly brother now, are you? Or did daddy tell you not to?"

She shook her head slightly. "No, Draco."

"What was that?" He leaned closer and blinked up at the ceiling expectantly, a taunting smile in place. "Why, you're quiet as a church mouse, sister. And look here! You're shaking like a leaf. I can hardly hear you through all that… _twitching."_ And he grabbed her hands, quivering erratically - hardly perceptible - and damp with perspiration under her fine gloves. His own forced them still.

"Stop shaking, won't you, sister?" he whispered. "Or daddy might see…and you know how he hates your trembling."

"Draco, please. Stop it-"

"Stop what? I'm not doing anything at all." He let go abruptly, smirking down at her. "You're the one who can't seem to control themself."

With this, he shouldered her aside and continued on down the corridor, laughing. She struggled to put to rest the vicious tremors her brother stirred to life so easily.

Once in the safety of her quarters, Hermione took off the stuffy mask and sat on her bed, pressing a handkerchief to wet eyes. Why did he hate her so much_, _so intensely? She didn't want Draco to detest her. She wanted him to love her, to teach her things like any brother would – but he had always been this way.

She didn't want to shake.

Hermione opened a book and began to read. Books were solace. They were the cure to one's sorrows. An Obliviation Spell well-executed. The underdogs who rose above the rest, the spectacular in the average, the happy ending everyone deserved, the loving brother, the handsome noble who seemed cold and unkind at first but really had a heart of gold beneath his stone complexion.

Tears wrinkled these pages.

Her fingers twitched against each other.

* * *

"How was your day at work, dear?"

"It was fine." Lord Malfoy didn't look up at his wife, slicing the quail on his plate with attentive eyes and examining each piece dexterously before putting it in his mouth and methodically chewing it. Ever since the Muggleborn working at Macmillan Manor went rogue and poisoned the master of the house, Lord Ernest, he did not eat one bite of a meal unless one of the servants tested it first. And even when this circumstance was met, the food on his plate was forever eyed suspiciously.

"And Dumbledore?" Narcissa queried. "How is he?"

"Very well and very busy, I imagine."

"Ah, wonderful. I drink to his health." And she sipped her glass of wine daintily, the streak of grey in her long, beautiful black hair glinting as the crystal goblet met the light of the overhanging chandelier and sent warm yellow highlights spinning across it. "And you Draco, dear, how was school today?"

"Very well." Draco straightened. "We're confident we'll win the season this year and quite possibly the house cup."

She beamed. "I don't doubt you will, dear."

"Of course Slytherin will win," said Lord Malfoy, stabbing another miserable bit of quail. "It is the best house, more so with that Riddle fellow on our side. I dare go so far as to say he gives his family something to be proud of, a topic to discuss at the table beside schoolboy tussles and slipping grades-"

"That was one semester," Draco said quickly, two spots of pink appearing high on his cheeks and giving his fair skin an odd blotchy hue. "And the new Potions teacher gives a significantly larger amount of coursework than Snape did."

"Ah, Severus. I wonder how he is handling his promotion in Dumbledore's Court?" Narcissa murmured in the background.

"Your friend seems to handle Professor Slughorn's coursework without trouble," continued Lord Malfoy, as if he hadn't heard his son speak. "Horace spoke highly of him when I saw him last, in fact."

"Well, sure, seeing as Tom is his bloody favorite and top of the class-"

"Draco, watch your tongue," Narcissa exclaimed and Draco bit his lip to keep the next oath from flying out. He lowered his eyes from Lord Malfoy's cold gaze, to the strong fingers his father slowly tapped against the table.

"I am very disappointed in you, Draco. You should know better than to speak so rudely during dinner – especially in front of your sister."

Dear Lord Merlin. He was bringing _her_ into the conversation? Now? Hermione reluctantly looked up from the pea soup, meeting her father's waiting gaze warily. Lord Malfoy smiled at her warmly. "Angel," he began. "I'm sure you would be able to complete your brother's coursework without any struggle at all, hm? You are competent, are you not?"

At this, Draco's glare hit her hard, like the blunt dagger the hairy-hearted warlock hacked into his chest so he'd never fall subject to love. She dropped her eyes back to her soup, selecting her words with care. "I must confess that I am no more intelligent than any other English lady, daddy."

"And no less modest, at that," Lord Malfoy chuckled. "Dumbledore is surely proud to call you one of his high-standing witches." He turned back to Draco, making an ironic gesture of peace with both hands. "So you see? If your sister is able to do the work, you just might be able to do so as well."

"Lucius, please-"

"Hush, Narcissa," Lord Malfoy said sharply. "Your son's entirely too soft. A little drive will be good for him."

Draco flushed.

Hermione cleared her throat, hands twisting the silk toilette underneath the deep ruby tablecloth nervously when all eyes at the table swung around to bear down on her like the wrathful waves of the Seine. "Excuse me, daddy. I do not mean to interrupt," she said, in a fruitless attempt at lightening conversation. "However, I was wondering, Draco; how is your friend doing?"

Her brother cocked a brow at the unpremeditated turn of discussion. "Which of them?" he replied and Lord Malfoy told him to watch his tone with his sister, in turn earning a gentle rebuke from his wife that was ignored.

"I refer to Master Riddle." Her heart beat faster at just the name, pounding against the newspaper clipping of the dashing wizard tucked inside her dress. "He conducted the opera we saw two weeks past, didn't he, daddy?" she continued, looking to Lord Malfoy, and he nodded. She refaced Draco. "How is he then, Draco?"

"He is doing well. Tom is successful and quite popular in school, as always." He directed his answer not at her but at Lord Malfoy, who looked vaguely interested now. "We're very close actually."

"He was so charming when he came here last," Narcissa recalled, with a fond smile. "You should invite him again."

"Yes, and perhaps he could assist you with your Potions homework," Lord Malfoy murmured into his Firewhiskey. Narcissa's smile faltered.

Draco looked ready to murder her.

_And fin, _Satan said, bowing with a flourish of his forked tail and swatting Psyche with it in the process. Psyche rolled her eyes; the picture of exasperation.

Supper finished, the Malfoys all stood for departure, and Bridget hurried forward from where she had been standing on the perimeter of the grand dining room along with a dozen other servants that now glided to clear the table. All at once, they began to sweep away the dishes house elves living in the basement filled, to collect sterling silverware young Muggleborns in uniform spent the previous night polishing.

Now was the time.

"Come, m'lady. I'll bring you to your room and draw a nice hot bath for you right away," Bridget said, rising from her curtsy and stepping toward her.

"Actually Bridget, I'm afraid I feel quite warm," Hermione said quickly. "Perhaps a turn about the courtyard would revive me?" She smiled at Lord Malfoy as sweetly as she could through the mask and whalebone jaws of her cinched corset. "Would you be so kind to come with me, daddy?"

Lord Malfoy looked surprised at the request from his docile daughter, but the expression quickly morphed into one of fondness as he looked upon her. "Of course, angel. But you'll require a cloak. I wouldn't want you catching a cold."

He called for Bridget and the handmaid scurried up, cloak in hand. "That had better be heavy, Mudblood," he said, eying the silvery material Bridget now clasped around Hermione's shoulders critically. "What is it made of?"

"Dragonskin, m'lord." Finished, Bridget bowed low to Lord Malfoy, her eyes turned respectfully to the ground, and scampered off when he dismissed her with a jerk of his pointy chin.

"Come along now, angel," he said and offered Hermione his arm, which she took lightly before exiting the dining room with him.

They walked the dimmed corridors to the front hall, heeled shoes clicking across the granite floor like the clopping of a gavel. Seeing the two Malfoys approach, Thomas the butler started awake from the spell he had drifted into and jumped off the threshold, lugging open the huge front doors seconds before Lord Malfoy and Lady Hermione swept through them.

Other servants, meanwhile, looked on the spectacle from behind polished railings and soapy tin buckets. Jamie clung to the banister on the sixth floor, peering down at the back of Lady Hermione's pretty head through freshly painted slats with squinty eyes before the doors shut once more.

"Are you recomposed, angel?" Lord Malfoy asked a number of minutes later on. "Or do you feel ill still? Perhaps you caught something at the opera. I shouldn't have brought you there, you're too weak-"

"The opera was weeks ago, daddy, and I feel much better actually." She looked up at the moon, full and ripe in the black belt above them. "If anything, it improved my health."

He sounded intrigued. "Did it now?"

"Yes, daddy – and I am so very grateful you brought me to see the opera. It was magnificent."

"Yes, yes, it was quite entertaining, wasn't it?" Lord Malfoy's pale eyes combed the bare hedges they passed, the neat lawn covered in snow and winding pathways under their feet, the winter wonderland frozen in time. "I am glad you enjoyed it."

"Oh, but I did. So, so very much…"

Lord Malfoy looked at her in mild surprise. "But you are discontent?" She bowed her head in confirmation. "And what is wrong, my sweet? Tell me and I will correct it."

"Nothing is wrong particularly, daddy. I simply adore the music I heard at the opera so much that I wish I could sing for you as those actresses sing, or play for your guests when they come to the manor on visits."

Satan nodded in agreement, his scarlet eyes wide and earnest.

"I see," Lord Malfoy said and a frown now creased his forehead as they continued through the garden. She could almost see the wheels turning under his fair hair, the flash in his eyes at the mention of a possible flaw. "Then you will learn to play an instrument, and I will find you a music teacher," he said with sudden determination, "that is, if Professor Umbridge cannot offer you lessons of that sort."

"Oh, thank you, daddy, but I am sorry to confess Professor Umbridge's strengths do not lie in music. She told me this herself."

"Did she now?" He pursed his lips. "Well then, I will find someone else."

"Ah, but it would be so dangerous to hire a stranger when you are here at home so infrequently. Dumbledore calls on you often, daddy, doesn't he?"

"Yes, that is true." And he stopped them in their tracks, turning on her in exasperation. "Well, what do you suppose I do, angel?"

She paused and pretended to think deeply. Slowly, as if the thoughts came to mind gradually, she said, "If only there were someone you knew who was experienced in the music mode, who has visited the manor before and could be trusted. Perhaps… Ah, perhaps Draco's teacher, Professor Slughorn! He sponsored Master Riddle's opera, did he not?"

"That he did. Sponsoring, however, is not the same as playing, my dear," said Lord Malfoy. He sighed. "Besides, Horace does not have the time to tutor you and would demand a much higher pay than he is surely worth."

They were quiet as they strolled past Narcissa's roses, flushed crimson and naked in the moonlight. The lovely flowers were enchanted to withstand winter's frigid scorn.

Hermione waited for the dots to connect.

"However," Lord Malfoy murmured, breaking the quiet with a word, with a gleam of revelation in his eye. "He speaks very highly of one student. In Slytherin, naturally, and of very noble blood I would assume."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He mulled over a thought here and Hermione's heart was a flutter in her bosom as she watched, crossing her fingers behind her back and praying to Lord Merlin silently. Praying that she'd done this right.

And finally, he said it.

"Would you object to Master Riddle being your teacher?"

"Master Riddle," she said, starting in a show of surprise. "Why no, I would not object at all. Draco says he does very well at school and mother seems to think very highly of him… How clever you are, daddy! What a brilliant idea."

He smirked. "Yes. It is, isn't it?"

They arrived in the front hall of Malfoy Manor once again, where Bridget came forward and took Hermione away to her chambers, and the sound of servants skittering up and down the halls had been all but Silenced.

Lord Malfoy remained at the foot of the grand stair, however, hands folded behind his back, whitening brows lifted in thought, his long smoothed hair shining with brilliantine under the soft glow of the chandelier and slicked back. He must act speedily now and make arrangements to meet Master Riddle, to make his proposal before he left for Paris. The young man was highly esteemed, but a man nonetheless, and he was wretched to let any wizard near his dear angel without proper precautions.

But they were only music lessons, after all, he reminded himself. What harm was there in that?

* * *

Knockturn Alley seemed an unlikely place for the renowned followers of Dumbledore's Court, yet every single one of them could be seen in the slummy streets weekly – if not twice a day – making questionable purchases in the shadows, bidding on Dark objects from Borgin & Burkes, arm-in-arm with a heavily made-up prostitute when their wives were at home whipping the staff, gambling in dingy bars, laughing away under pools of smoke that reeked of laudanum, spitting tobacco on beggars as they passed them and taking note of promotion flyers for the Mudblood-slave trade.

Voldemort detested them all.

Yet, he pretended to be one of them.

To the public, he was an outstanding student who would graduate to join Dumbledore's highest ranks, a talented composer, a Pureblood whose magical veins traced back to Salazar Slytherin – this proven by his stunning ability to speak fluent Parseltongue and command the Basilisk living in the Chamber of Secrets to return to the Hogwarts underground, stopping the death toll of devoured students in its tracks at four and winning him an award in the Hogwarts hall of fame for his bravery in fifth year – but overall, the majority of the populace believed he was the product of an interbred marriage. Nothing to sniff at. Not at all out of the norm.

But the _truth_ was what powered Voldemort and drove him to his earnest detestations of the nobles, the aristocrats who called themselves masters of their kind, of their pompous ways and lazy habits – and most of all, his hatred of Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore had been the overlord of all of England ever since he defeated his rival Grindelwald and overthrew the Ministry sixty years ago, naming himself the high lord of the Wizarding World. It was he who established the severe lines separating Muggle and magical, who burnt down every last bridge between their worlds, who treated his kind like vermin and had them lower on the food chain than horse dung.

He did not remember much of his mother - only flat brown hair and sad, sad eyes – but he remembered his traitor uncle with crystal clarity. Morfin Gaunt was, all in all, a lunatic. He'd had disgusting, straggly black hair that seemed to be constantly infested with lice no matter what pesticide tonic the man was given, eyes pointing in opposite directions, and he took joy in torturing garden snakes as well as beating Merope and casting a vicious Cruciatus Curse on any Muggle unfortunate enough to tread on their land.

But Morfin was a deformity, a danger to the public, and as a consequence he had been hidden away by the family to avoid further humiliation or disgrace. Merope, a Squib, was kept inside the manor as well.

Her son was trapped with her.

Voldemort knew without question that it was his uncle who turned his mother in, who betrayed his own blood and tipped off Dumbledore's followers to the dirt just on the other side of the hill: a Muggle man Merope secretly met with that Morfin knew to be the father of her son. Luckily, his uncle had been too arrogant and – well – flat out stupid to ever learn the Muggle's name. And so Voldemort was able to keep his surname without suspicion.

He remembered it clearly. The designated executers arriving at the manor and Morfin pointing past the gate, speaking in that frog-like croak so hard to forget. So easy to recall.

_"That filthy Muggle lives righ' over 'ere in the big white house. I sees it all the time, going ups and downs in the street in its carriage like its gotta right to breathe." Morfin spat a wad of phloem on the ground. "Nasty, dirt-veined Mudbloods..."_

'The Muggle' was executed by Killing Curse promptly, for the greater good of the Wizarding World in an effort to avoid exposure, while Merope Gaunt and her four-year old child died from a terrible, accidental potion explosion… or so page sixteen of the Daily Prophet said.

Soon, that child would make Dumbledore pay.

Voldemort entered one of the finer pubs of Knockturn Alley (if one ever did exist in this shady backend of Diagon), strolling up to the hostess and passing her a heavy envelope over the podium. The dotty witch turned out to be very slow and so as she read, he let his eyes assess the embellished restaurant, taking in brown leather booths and bread baskets, ruby-red candlesticks and levitated chandeliers, dress robes and black suits, fat gold rings and smoking pipes. There wasn't a woman in sight, beside the hostess.

Voldemort slanted his eyes to see better. A thick haze settled over restaurant Bellinis, stinging the retina and letting only a small portion trip out the front door when a new customer came inside. The restaurant was reservation only as well.

No Mud-and-or-halfbloods were allowed admittance – naturally.

"Oh goodness, but you're Master Riddle! I'm so sorry, sir, Lord Malfoy told me you would be coming," the hostess exclaimed, with a sudden look of intense apology replacing the bored expression she'd worn before. She hustled off her pedestal, taking his coat and flinging it at a waiter walking by with a barked command to _carefully _place Master Riddle's belongings in the coat check.

"Right this way, sir," she ushered with a frazzled smile.

Voldemort inclined his head and followed the hostess through the maze of tables and smoke, to a private room in the very back sectioned off by silk curtains. _Merlin__, they're even green_. A slight sneer curled his upper lip. Lucius had an overbearing pride in everything he did, including his family's well known allegiance to Slytherin, and it was only typical of the man to have the restaurant he ate at order a new pair of curtains just for himself.

But Lucius had the type of pride that could effortlessly build up a man.

Or, just as easily, crush him.

The hostess pulled back the curtain, said two glasses of Firewhiskey would be coming right away, and hurried off at a nod from the man sitting at their table. The man in question had pale fingers that were steepled like a church spire. He regarded Voldemort over them.

"It is good to see you again, Master Riddle," said Lord Malfoy in greeting. "I presume your travels here were without difficulty?"

"You would presume correctly," he replied. "I arrived by carriage after Headmaster Dippet read your letter and approved of my short absence. But may I inquire after the reason of your invitation, sir?"

"Of course." Lord Malfoy moved, the greedy hands that clasped each other now parting. One went to caress his bejeweled, serpent-headed cane – Voldemort had to bite back a snort at another sign of the man's blatant propaganda – and the other drew a red envelope from his robe. The Malfoy emblem was stamped in hardened wax on the seal and jingling could be heard from inside.

"I aim to make a proposal to you today, Master Riddle," Lord Malfoy said, eying him for a response. His gaze was light in color, dark by intention, and nothing at all like his daughter's, Voldemort observed. "Would you hear me out?"

_Ah, yes, Lucius. I would hear you out as surely as I would cut your throat. _

Voldemort bowed his head humbly, smiling. "Nothing would please me more, sir."

* * *

Hermione's attention was, admittedly, a tenuous thing during lessons.

From nine AM to a quarter past eleven o'clock she studied the Twelve Laws of Transfiguration whilst humming compositions softly under her breath, then after a short break for lunch she wavered between Russian grammar and daydreams of a wizard with black hair that had the most subtle curl to it – gentler than a sea wave, in fact – and even darker eyes.

During Magical Theory, it occurred to her that her plan may have failed, that Master Riddle would not accept Lord Malfoy's offer – or worse – he'd forgotten all about her.

Half an hour after one PM, she sped through analysis readings on Circe IV, one finger leaving the book she recited to trace the outline of the newspaper clipping just above her breast…

A knock on the door sounded in the middle of National Issues, interrupting Umbridge mid-lecture. The tutor frowned. "Who could that–?"

The mysterious person rapped on the door again, sharply, and it seemed petitions advocating the domestication of centaurs would have to wait as Umbridge let out a long-suffering simper of a sigh. "Oh alright," she called. "Do come in, whoever you are."

Immediately, Bridget burst inside, cheeks pinker than Umbridge on Valentine's Day and her big bosom heaving. Hermione's tutor herself scowled at the sight of the Muggleborn handmaid, revolted.

"M-my deepest apologies f-for interrupting, l-l-ladies." A huge gasp. "Lord Malfoy sent me." Bridget dropped into a quick curtsy, keeping her eyes on the floor. "Lady Hermione, he requests to see you immediately."

He did?

_But what for?_ Psyche whispered.

Satan shrugged.

Hermione blinked and looked to Umbridge, who was positively indignant now. "I do not understand," she said in a barely-contained simmer, "how Lady Hermione is to learn anything when her lessons are continuously interrupted by you pea-brained Mudbloods and her presence constantly needed elsewhere-"

"I apologize, miss," Bridget said hurriedly. "Lord Malfoy said you may leave – with full pay, naturally – if you wish it."

Umbridge stared at the handmaid incredulously for a second, eyes bulging like a squeezed toad's, and Hermione coughed behind her quill to repress a spout of laughter. Her tutor seemed to swell into greater size, if possible. "If it pleases Lord Malfoy, then I shall leave, but when I return tomorrow I'll expect not one interruption during my instruction," she sniffed. "I am paid to teach, not to put up with this… this _nonsense_."

She gave her wand a terse flick. All at once, the world maps Charmed onto the walls of Hermione's bedroom, the textbooks littering her desks and drawn-up diagrams floating midair, pamphlets, scrolls, quills, and inkwells flew into Umbridge's large crocodile-skin purse – Transfigured into a brilliant shade of magenta, naturally – which snapped shut with a smart clack.

Umbridge looked to her expectantly. "Excuse me, Lady Hermione."

"Oh, sorry." She stepped out of the way, raising her head when Umbridge stopped beside Bridget at the door. The tutor paused to give the handmaid a long, dark glare, and eyed Bridget as if she were less of a human and more of a cockroach.

The look made Satan's crimson eye go baleful.

"You'd do well not to interrupt me again, Mudblood," Umbridge said softly. "Lest you find yourself out of work and lined up for the Kiss in Azkaban next."

Bridget blanched. "Of course, miss."

"Hmph." She half-turned, nodding to Hermione politely. "Good day, Lady Hermione. I will see you tomorrow."

"Good day, professor."

They watched Umbridge go, the sound of her baby pink colored heels clicking out of range before they eventually disappeared altogether. Hermione sighed.

"I'm sorry she's like that, Bridget," she said, interrupting the silence. "I wish I could…"

_Make it stop, _Psyche finished.

Bridget made a fast dash at her eyes with a dirty handkerchief and hoarse bark of a laugh. "It is nothing out of the ordinary, m'lady," she said, waving the apologies away. "Now we must go. You've kept Lord Malfoy waiting long enough."

Hermione agreed and briefly checked the strings of her mask, folding her hands over her middle as they moved through the hallways of the manor. Granite floors turned every footstep into a dozen echoes, passing servants paused to bow or curtsy, and a less than flattering critique on her posture was supplied by Alexander Malfoy II as they passed his humungous portrait on the third floor. However, she, in the meantime, puzzled the reason behind Lord Malfoy's summoning.

It was a weekday. Monday, to be exact, and thus a working day for her father…

_Wait, no, that's not right. _Lord Malfoy did not work today, for Dumbledore was sending him to France within a week's time to meet the minister there and help the French Ministry develop better guidelines for segregation, create reforms on the secrecy of wizardry, and ultimately to persuade them to become Britain's partner in the Mudblood-slave trade: a concept which intrigued the French minister. For now (or at least until he left for Paris), there was no immediate need for Lord Malfoy in Dumbledore's Court unless an emergency meeting was called.

But what was he doing home? Usually, in the time leading to his departure Lord Malfoy would meet with colleagues in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, attend auctions, make calls to family friends, or invite fellow followers and retire to a recreation room on the far side of the manor with them for a smoke or two. Could this possibly be about Master Riddle? Their conversation concerning her musical education had been days ago, and she'd half-figured her father had forgot it completely by now.

"Lord Malfoy is right inside, m'lady," said Bridget, interrupting her thoughts. Before the handmaid could open the door, however, Hermione stopped her with a quick hand motion. The old woman stopped and stared at her, taking in the plump lip bit by small teeth and nervous flutter of white-gloved hands with curiosity. "Yes, m'lady?" she asked.

"I need you to go to Diagon Alley, Bridget," Hermione said in hush. The handmaid looked surprised. "You must go there and fetch me this list of books." Here, she pulled a carefully folded parchment from her silk sleeve and pressed it into Bridget's hands. "You'll find them in London."

"London?" echoed Bridget, shocked. "But, m'lady, it is forbidden. How am I to get there?"

Hermione gave her a sharp look. "Don't treat me like a fool, Bridget. I am perfectly aware how well you know Diagon Alley – better than this manor, I don't doubt – and I know there are ways into the Muggle world Purebloods are ignorant of…" She lowered her voice. "But you know of them, don't you?"

Bridget nodded meekly.

She beamed. "I knew you would. Oh! And I've prepared money for you also," she said, covertly. "If you return to my room you'll find a pouch of shillings in the dresser, third drawer down."

"Good Lord! How did you get Muggle money, m'-?"

"By Transfiguration." She squeezed her gloved hands over Bridget's clammy ones, over the parchment clenched in her handmaid's fist. "Go quickly, alright? You must be back before the end of the night. Tomorrow, I'll even pretend to send you to Hogsmeade on errands and you can spend all day at the owlery if you'd like."

"You…ah…know...?"

"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me." She straightened. "Now go, Bridget. Quickly."

Her handmaid curtsied clumsily, obviously still recovering from shock. "Y-yes, m'lady. Good day." And she hastened away, swiftly hiding the parchment in a pocket of her apron before vanishing down the corridor.

Hermione prayed Bridget wouldn't get caught.

That _she _wouldn't get caught.

She checked her dress and entered the parlor alone, to find the fireplace roaring and Lord Malfoy sitting on the edge of the fine room in his favorite chair. He looked at home in its swath of cushions and stared into the blazing fire with silvery eyes.

"There you are, angel," he said quietly at the sound of the opening door. "Come here now. Sit at my feet."

"Yes, daddy." She went over and kneeled, the layered skirt of her dress acting like pads as they softened the hard floor. His touch was measured as it skimmed her head. "If I may ask, why did you call me here?" she said.

"I spoke to Master Riddle."

_Master Riddle. _She tried to hide the instant chorus of joy that sang inside her, to not smile so hard her cheeks ached from the stretch, to keep still when what she really wanted to do was jump up and dance and dance around the room like a foolish girl on Christmas morning.

But she could not, of course.

"Oh?"

"Yes." He nodded firmly. "I also proposed he be your tutor in music until the end of the school year."

_The end of the school year? _That was nearly six months! "And? What did he say, daddy?" _What did he say?_

"He accepted-"

"Oh, thank you so-"

"Let me finish," he said sharply and she quieted. He rubbed a thumb over the bejeweled serpent head topping his cane slowly. "Master Riddle accepted my proposal under…certain terms."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He drew up a list with a flick of his wand, slipping on his reading glasses and glancing over it briefly. Satan wanted her to wrench the thing out of his hands. "Yes, yes, here they are," Lord Malfoy said. "Now, since Master Riddle is still attending school certain needs must be met on both ends. Do you follow?"

"Yes, daddy."

"That's my girl." He smiled. "Luckily, Master Riddle attends Hogwarts with Draco and so we were able to avoid any inconvenience of transportation. Now, I have invited him to live with us at the manor until June when your instruction is complete. He will come here as Draco does every day at four o'clock, taking the train from school to the Diagon Alley station and then travelling here to the manor in one of our private carriages. Your lessons will commence on weekdays from six-thirty PM to seven-thirty PM. On Saturdays and Sundays, Master Riddle is free to use his time as he pleases."

_I have invited him to live with us at the manor._ Lord Malfoy's words resounded through Hermione's head like the hymns of doom, making her lose what color her pale skin had and stilling the last of blood her corset allowed to circulate. Dear Lord Merlin. Master Riddle was to actually live with them? To sleep in a guest chamber just rooms away from her own? To reside under their roof? To teach her not once or twice a week, but every school day?

She was blushing already.

"And am I to stay in my room while Master Riddle is here, daddy?" Hermione said uncertainly, for this was the usual procedure when there were guests at the manor.

Lord Malfoy frowned and looked surprised by the question, and she immediately knew she shouldn't have asked at all – but luckily, a moment later her father only laughed. "Of course you will, angel. I would not want anyone seeing too much of my darling gem, now would I?"

She was silent for a moment and then, unable to contain curiosity a second longer, gingerly said, "When…when will my lessons begin?"

"Master Riddle cannot come until next week," Lord Malfoy said, and disappointment instantly welled in Hermione's bosom. Why did one week suddenly seem years away?

"Unfortunately, this is just days before Dumbledore is sending me to Paris," he continued. "But I have met with Master Riddle recently and can say with utmost confidence that he is a very honorable and trustworthy wizard. He is valued by Albus Dumbledore himself, in fact, and so long as you…" He looked to her minutely. "…follow the rules, you will be perfectly safe."

"Yes, daddy."

And she was quiet now. For the time, the next long seven days of waiting, the countdown until Master Riddle's arrival, hushed her. Why was she so miserable? So excited? Why did her heart beat so fast? When had her hands become so damp? When did she go to her room? She hardly remembered leaving the parlor and bidding goodnight to Lord Malfoy, or Draco's snipe as she passed him in the hall, or lying down on her bed and pulling the newspaper clipping free from the slip and corset trapping it. All of that seemed to be a distant dream.

The day after the next seven were the new reality.

Master Riddle smiled at her from the moving photograph. Light bulbs flashed in the background and a castle towered in the distance behind him, barely visible in the headshot. This must have been Hogwarts. The paper had wrinkled right over his brow, but she fixed it with a tap of her wand and a whispered Renewal Spell.

_There, _said Psyche dreamily. _All better._

She moved her finger over the picture carefully, wishing the seven days were already up. Pretending Master Riddle was just down the hall in the empty room next to Draco's, perhaps doing homework or – she turned red at the thought – getting ready for bed. And she felt nervous when she thought of the moment she would see him next. And incredibly impatient for it.

She'd never been so confused.

So excited.

So wonderfully afraid.

* * *

**AN: Bits-slash-quotes used in the story of Cupid and Psyche that Hermione read hail from _Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes, _Edith Hamilton. *beady-eyed citation wizard vanishes* SO, I hope you all liked the chapter, and I would loooove to hear your input on it. Do we love Draco? Do we hate him because he's a brat? Thoughts on Voldemort's diabolical plans? (He makes diabolical look so good; _umph._) Feelings about Hermione's little subconscious tagalongs? Twitches? Inappropriate urges? Yeast infections? Got the Tomione feels? **

**I got the feels. *always***

**Kisses!  
ImmortalObsession**


	3. Date of Breath

**AN: Hi everyone! Thank you all for the lovely reviews; there were lots of questions and some comments on Draco's-brattiness-slash-Lord-Malfoy's-creepiness (lol). Because I don't want to give too much away though, I'm just going to say that there's a reason for **_**everything**_**. I promise.**

**So as far as FAQs go, we're wondering whether or not Hermione is pretty and if she has the Malfoy trademark hair? Hermione **_**is **_**pretty, yes - it's one of the key factors behind the mask and the rules – but she does not have white-blonde hair or anything. Physical trait wise, she looks exactly as she did in the books. I didn't want to change that. But, you know, if you picture her a different way… go crazy with it. *woohoo!* **

**There's also a bit of concern about Narcissa and Hermione. I can't tell you everything, but I can say that they didn't interact on purpose, Narcissa is most definitely Hermione's birth mother, and yes, there's a giant pink elephant of tension in Malfoy Manor. **

**Hermione is sixteen-years old. Master Riddle and Draco are seventeen, in their last year of Hogwarts. **

**yasminEE, I picture none other than Christian Coulson as Tom Riddle. Yes, he's totally delicious. **

* * *

_"But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,_  
_And she, too desperate, would not go with me,_  
_But, as it seems, did violence on herself."_  
- Shakespeare_, Romeo & Juliet_

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_seven days later_

The man's name was Abraxas Malfoy. The murderer, the rapist, the slimy pig who killed his mother and destroyed what life Voldemort would've had were both his parents not buried deep under the ground, coffins crushed beneath half a mile of dirt and a thousand more lies.

The other follower of Dumbledore that had gone with Abraxas to kill his parents was Avery Lestrange, one of the leading officials in Dumbledore's Court and well respected all throughout England. The Killing Curse cast on Tom Riddle Sr. had traced back to Lestrange's wand when Voldemort went down to the graveyard on Little Hangleton five years ago, to dig up the graves and check.

He was next on the list.

Both men, unfortunately, were already long dead – but their lines were not. And Voldemort had vowed when he was very young to wipe out every last Malfoy and Lestrange, to avenge himself and obliterate their families as they had so carelessly obliterated his. He wouldn't rest until every last Malfoy and Lestrange was ruined beyond reconciliation, effaced clear from the earth – until they were all condemned to hell.

Voldemort shut the lone trunk with a rap of his wand, right on one of the multiple rips slicing its beat-up surface. What a pathetically small amount of time, he realized, it had taken him to pack all his belongings. Even worse, it took him seventeen years to accumulate every last worthless object in this shitty sack. Seventeen _years._

He hadn't been able to use any of the money made from the opera either, nor had he been able to save so much as a Sickle what with paying the cast, stagehands, opera hall, for the props and crew, and reimbursing Slughorn's funding.

Yes. Funding_. _

The very word and all its ugly meaning and implications showed just how poor he really was, although he kept his financial situation under very tight wraps. Only Headmaster Dippet, Slughorn, and – of course – Dumbledore knew the vacancy of the vault in Gringotts under his name.

This fact amplified the fury, burning like the Devil's furnace, inside him.

Sorrow turned to hatred, hatred gone bitter, bitterness become the inability to function like a normal human being and feel empathy, remorse, pity, love. All gone. None of it missed. What did he need such petty emotions for anyway? Voldemort was above human, above feeling, and most of all above mercy.

They showed his family no mercy.

He would show no one his.

* * *

Hermione wrote her arts and culture reading assignment on the Gothic era in France on a three-foot long scroll, halfway full within an hour and nearly finished now. Her spine was erect as a folded up ironing board. The mask was secured. Every word written on her sheet was in a loopy, cursive script Lord Malfoy had approved himself ages ago.

A memory came to her then, a grainy flash of being small enough to be carried through the halls on a servant's hip, of holding a long quill in the firm, awkward grasp of a child for the first time. She'd practice writing lines all day with Umbridge, on learning the letters of the alphabet and copying them carefully onto parchments.

Lord Malfoy had come home from work at Dumbledore's Court early on in the evening and stopped by in their lesson to observe her. She'd wanted to impress him with what she learned, but within the length of a minute her father had swooped over and forced open the hand gripping the quill, switching it to her right and meeting shocked brown eyes with steely silver ones.

"Now angel, you cannot write with your left," he had said, an oddly stiff smile on his mouth. "Malfoys write in the right hand. It has been this way for centuries. Left is for Mudbloods and lesser magical creatures, and I do not want to find you writing like one of them ever again or I will be very displeased. Now do you want to displease me, my angel?"

"No, daddy."

"Then don't let me see you writing this way again."

"Yes, daddy."

And she never wrote in the left hand again.

A firm knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, giving her a start. "Lady Hermione?" followed it in a timid twitter.

_Bridget. _It was only Bridget. Hermione gathered her skirts and stood, shoving away Umbridge's assignment to the lone side of her desk. "One moment," she called back, and looked around for the mask. Where was that blasted thing? She lifted a cushion on the davenport sofa, then checked the dusty space under the wardrobe and vanity. After another minute of searching, she lost her patience and finally took out her wand, giving it a light swish. _"Accio _mask."

The mask, masquerade in style and black in color, flew out from where it must have been lurking under her bed to land straight into her hands. She tied it on fast, tucking away her wand next. "Come in, Bridget."

Bridget burst through the door, flushed and breathless and bearing heavy shopping bags in her arms. "M'lady, I-I have th-the items you r-requested," she gasped.

"What-? Oh, quiet, quiet! Get in here before the rest of the house hears you," Hermione hissed, shutting the door and locking it. She turned around to find Bridget in the center of the room, still panting and looking ready to buckle from exertion. "Did you really get them all?"

Her handmaid struggled to squeeze in a curtsy. "Y-yes, m-"

"Oh, forget pleasantries. Sit down before you faint." She hurried forward and took one of the bulging bags from her handmaid, who gladly collapsed on a violet ottoman, wiping at the dampened grey hair curling out from under her white cap with a faded handkerchief and wheezing.

Hermione crossed the bedroom to her desk and laid out every book Bridget had retrieved across the top, thumbing through the titles tenderly – as if they were the Raj's jewels rather than some pawned literature. _Wuthering Heights, Prometheus Unbound, The Count of Monte Cristo, Frankenstein, the Three Musketeers, Jane Eyre, Le Rouge et le Noir, the Iliad, the Republic, the Ides of March, the Odyssey, Inferno, the Prince, A Midsummer Night's Dream– _

"Oh Bridget, you're an angel," she breathed.

Her handmaid turned a rather blotchy shade of puce. "It was nothing, m'lady, really."

But Hermione hardly heard her. Dear Lord, to think that for ten _years_ the only Muggle-written book she'd ever read had been a tattered copy of _Paradise Lost_, dropped by a runaway Muggleborn in uniform sprinting through the street even as the rain poured and thunder rumbled.

She and Lord Malfoy had been on their yearly trip to the Hogsmeade opera house when the woman came running into the street, knocked back by one of the horses pulling their carriage and dead in the next second. Lord Malfoy had told her to stay inside the carriage when he went out to see the commotion, but she'd gone out anyway.

Curiosity had always been her worst habit.

And so hiding behind the wheel and girth of the seated cab driver, Hermione watched as the noble wizards and witches walked right by the dead woman, a bloodied bump in the road, hand feebly half-open and fingers stretched heavenward. But what had she been reaching for? The Lord? The foggy sky?

Suddenly, the low heel of a handsome shoe broke through her thoughts and crushed that hand, snapping bone and twisting limp tendons. Atop it was her father.

Hermione skittered back, hands searching for purchase on the scraping cobblestone and finding it in some sopping wet pages. She turned, surprised to find a water-logged book in her fingers. It must have flown out of the woman's grasp, she realized, when the horses trampled her.

She carefully picked it up and cast a Drying Charm on it, but the ink was ruined and a different spell would have to be performed to fix it later. She met the woman's unseeing eyes and said a prayer for her, softly, before stealing inside the carriage again.

Lord Malfoy had failed to realize she was wet when he returned.

"Here." Hermione presently gave Bridget a dense pouch of Galleons; something no one at Malfoy Manor would neither miss nor bat an eye at. "You go spend the rest of the day in Hogsmeade, and if anyone asks, you are on errands for your lady."

"Y-yes, m'lady." Bridget was still catching her breath. "Thank you," she said, but before she could accept the money a bell tolled all throughout the house, beginning in the downstairs library and spreading to the rest of the clocks scattered throughout the manor promptly. Her handmaid's eyes went wide suddenly and she jumped to her feet, clutching her bosom. "My goodness, I nearly forgot!"

"Forgot what?"

"It's four o'clock, m'lady, and Lord Malfoy wants to see you before he's off to his meeting," she explained, flitting around like a busy bee and fluffing the ruffles of Hermione's dress, smoothing a sleeve here and tying a low knot of curls at the nape of her neck. "We must not-"

"-keep him waiting," Hermione finished, nodding. She wriggled out from under her handmaid's overly attentive grooming, going to the door. Psyche hastened after, putting down the brush she'd been pulling through her long satiny hair and followed closely by Bridget.

_The seven days are up, _the Greek maiden screeched._ Hurry!_

"Lady Hermione, wait for me, please. I can't run fast," begged Bridget as they perused the halls, struggling to keep up with her eager strides.

When they finally arrived at the parlor, Hermione was unnecessarily patted down once again, smoothed, and picked at. Thoughts of Master Riddle and his opera darted around her head, making her heart beat fast and palms sweat beneath their gloves. She willed back threatening trembles. She leveled her shoulders. She waited patiently as Bridget opened the door to the parlor, where voices inside immediately flowed out into the halls and swallowed her.

She curtsied. She smiled.

She would be an English flower, she told herself. The epitome of good conduct.

But staring at her folded hands, nervously dancing over the seams at her pinched waist, Hermione felt her very heart falter as she stood there in the doorway waiting, more so when she heard Lord Malfoy, Narcissa, Draco, and a voice – no, not any voice but _the _voice – float out from inside.

He was here.

"Ah, there she is," said Lord Malfoy, remnants of laughter evident in his voice as he now looked on her. Master Riddle had told a joke, but she'd been too frazzled to catch it. "Come in, angel, and meet our guest, Master Riddle."

"Yes, daddy." She entered and the door was shut behind her, cutting off all hopes of escape now. She would have taken a deep breath if her cursed corset allowed it.

Lord Malfoy sat smoking a pipe in his favorite chair. Draco and Master Riddle occupied the grey-suede sofa, discussing what sounded to her like Quidditch while Narcissa listened to them attentively from the loveseat, drinking a tall glass of rose champagne – only brought out by the servants when there were guests to impress, naturally.

Satan nudged her forward with a whip of his forked tail. _Don't trip! _

She crossed the room, carefully, and perched on the empty side of the loveseat. She folded her hands. She decided to keep her eyes on the safest object in the room: Lord Malfoy's cane. She did not stare at the clock, for that would imply she wanted to leave and did not enjoy being here; she did not look at the champagne, for Umbridge instructed her that such an object of interest could – at worst – suggest she was a drunk and presently wanting alcohol. The latter seemed a little extreme to Hermione, but in the presence of Master Riddle, she didn't dare try the truth of Umbridge's words.

So she stayed there, listening and saying a word occasionally – but this was only when Lord Malfoy asked her a question directly – and fighting the urge to let her eyes fast on another gaze, black like mortar and migrating to her from time to time.

Even now, for the third time in the hour, she felt it again, as clearly as she imagined the sun might feel on the alabaster shade her skin had been coerced into by parasols and long sleeves. Her neck felt hot.

She thought she saw Master Riddle smirk out of the corner of her eye.

_Good evening, Master Riddle, _Psyche said demurely, with a perfect curtsy and nonchalant smile. _I have been looking forward to your lessons for weeks and thank you for going out of your way to come here. I trust your travels were satisfactory? _

_Oh, you're pathetic. _Satan was condescending.

Psyche giggled.

When a servant came in to announce that supper was ready, Hermione's shoulders sagged with relief, her eyes instinctively darting up – and meeting two dark orbs in the next instant.

She froze.

Master Riddle smiled mysteriously, inclined his head, and looked away.

* * *

'_How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!' cried Miss Pross, 'to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.'_

It was Tuesday. She had her first lessons with Master Riddle at six-thirty, Umbridge had already come and made disparaging comments on her work and bad habits – humming, apparently, was a very un-ladylike thing to do and bad for the vocal chords – and lastly, Bridget had nothing left to pluck at or perfect. All in all, there was nothing to do.

Hermione checked the door and pulled the curtains.

She climbed onto the bed, hiking up her heavy skirts and casting "_Cacher."_

Reaching into the frame mounted on the wall, she slid _A Tale of Two Cities_ onto the painted shelves inside it. The picture was a still life of a simple room, with foreshortening drowning most of its contents in shadow and the only source of light automatically luring the viewer's eye to a blueberry pie sitting on a windowsill. It was insufferably boring.

But it was also her safe.

Hermione returned to her vanity, too restless to read any longer. Thinking. How would Master Riddle act when she saw him tonight? Would he be distant? Would he be charming and suave, as he had been the last time they met? She was not sure which she preferred. Or had he changed his mind about the proposal? What if he hadn't really meant it at all and despised her for taking him up on the offer, for pulling him away from his studies to teach a silly girl scales and how to read music notes? She would be mortified beyond words, if this were the case, and surely never leave the safety of the manor ever again.

Better yet, why was she worrying so much? She was being silly. Frivolous.

Still…

There was a knock on the door, followed by "Lady Hermione?"

"Come in, Bridget," she answered, and her handmaid promptly did so. Bridget put down the china service she carried and curtsied, shook her apron sharply, for a little while patting the starch-white fabric into straight submission against her beefy thighs. It was a gesture Hermione recognized.

She was stalling.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Who is that for?" she inquired, when the patting and fiddling did not end. "I didn't ask for any tea."

"Oh, I-I-I know. It is for Master Riddle and Master Draco, m'lady. They are in the refreshment room."

"Oh." She worried the ends of her curly hair for a minute, loosened in the privacy of her room and tumbling far past her waist. "But what are you doing up here? The refreshment room is on the other side of the manor-"

"Master Riddle told me to give you this, m'lady," Bridget burst out and extracted a thin, tattered book from the pocket of her apron, shoving it at her. She caught it barely, surprised. "Don't ask me what it is, because I can't read one letter of the English alphabet," she ranted at Hermione's questioning look. "He didn't tell me and I haven't a clue myself and I'll be back a quarter past six o' clock to bring you to your lessons. Now if you'll excuse me, m'lady."

Bridget curtsied, gasped her thanks, and hurried from the room with a huff, the china on her tray clinking like porcelain bells all the way down the hall. Hermione stared at the place she'd stood for a moment, bewildered, before finally shutting the door her handmaid forgot to close.

What on earth had Bridget in such a tizzy? she wondered.

Peering at the gift, she found Master Riddle had given her a music booklet. It was obviously elementary level, yet as she flipped through the pages she couldn't make any sense of the black dots or staffs filling the whites. She slowed when she came to the back, where the edge of something ivory-colored and stiff peeked out from the wilted pages.

You didn't need to be literate to recognize it.

She glanced at the closed door, suspicious, and carefully pulled out the envelope. It felt heavy. What did Master Riddle send her? And more importantly, why did he send her anything at all?

She dug around in one of the drawers of her vanity, pushing past unused powders and makeup brushes until she dug up a pen knife. With one flick, the sharp edge broke the envelope's sticky seal, and a small black pocketbook tumbled to her feet.

_What in Zeus's name…? _Psyche muttered, sharing a helpless look with Miss Pross.

Satan was laughing somewhere from his station in the ninth circle.

Hermione picked up the book, opening it to find every page inside blank and – so it seemed – untouched. It was a diary.

She was boggled. Did Master Riddle want her to start a journal? But why? What for?

Perhaps she could ask him about it tonight.

She put the diary away with a frown and started on the music booklet.

* * *

Six-fifteen finally arrived and with it, faithful Bridget returned, distinctly less jittery and nervous. She had no deliveries this time.

Her handmaid escorted her to the third floor music room, which had not been used in over seventy years since Gemma Malfoy, wife of Terence Malfoy IV, played the lone piano inside it for guests and family. Now, the door to the long-abandoned room opened and a swell of music from within it flooded them in a consuming musical wave.

Master Riddle sat at the recently-dusted baby grand piano, head bent and long spindly fingers flying over the keys at the speed of light.

"I will see you in an hour, m'lady," Bridget said loudly through the chiming chords, curtsying to her and then Master Riddle, who still hadn't turned. Perhaps he did not realize they were here, she thought. "Sir." And Bridget left the room, leaving the door open and taking her post just outside in the hall.

They could not practice un-chaperoned, of course.

"Lady Hermione," Master Riddle said, without looking up. "Come in and sit down."

Hermione's fingers danced over her skirts nervously. Her voice trembled on the way out. "Yes, Master Riddle."

She felt oddly relieved he'd finally acknowledged her, had given her something to do, and sat in an armchair in the otherwise vast, empty room. Her new teacher did not speak again and she wracked her brain for something to say, a conversation to go with the music, for a topic that might interest a seventeen-year old wizard, a bit of humor, a question concerning Quidditch, or – for the love of Lord Merlin – even a terribly dull comment on the weather.

But the art of English language seemed to have escaped her completely.

"You're quiet again." He glanced at her, smirking, and it was suddenly as if the stiff meeting in the parlor had never occurred. The air bubble of nerves clogging her throat deflated ever so slightly. "How come?"

"I…I am waiting for instruction, I suppose, Master Riddle." She blushed to meet those intense eyes and her own darted away, to stare at the ivory keys he played so effortlessly. He followed her gaze.

"Do you know what song this is?" he asked.

She grimaced. "Um… no, Master Riddle."

"That's fine. I would not expect you to." Unless her ears deceived her, a touch of condescension entered that lacquered voice. She bit her lip. "It is written by Chopin. One of the nocturnes."

Chopin? She'd never heard of a composer by that name. "Oh, how charming," she said lamely.

He did not reply.

She felt foolish and pulled out the book he had given her to distract herself, tugging the frayed ears with gloved fingertips. "I apologize for the lack of supplies, Master Riddle," she said to fill the void. "Lord Malfoy has ordered instruments for us though and they should arrive quite soon, I imagine..."

More quiet.

"And thank you for the book, as well," she added. A blatantly desperate attempt at conversation.

Master Riddle looked at her sideways and – thank goodness – a smile finally curled his lips. "You mean that ratty thing?" he said, glancing at the booklet she held with some amusement. "It's ancient. About as decipherable as hieroglyphics without the Rosetta Stone, by now."

"Oh." She blushed. "I, um, I found it very interesting actually, Master Riddle."

"You read it then?"

"Yes."

He paused, and here his song ended with an abrupt clang when he turned his body toward her completely for the first time. She realized he was in Hogwarts school uniform, wearing the same green-and-silver tie, white button down, and black trousers Draco wore on weekdays. "Really? All of it?" he said.

"Yes, Master Riddle," she said tentatively. "I…I had a few questions actually, if I am allowed to ask them."

_If I am allowed to ask them. _Voldemort found he liked the submission in Lady Hermione's soft manner. He smirked a little, imperceptibly. "You may ask."

And how she did.

She had read through the book four times in the two hours it had been in her possession, but did not have the varying notes memorized, and the numerous scales and intervals confused her. He explained them briefly and she said she noticed there were three different clefs also. What did they mean? He told her to open her book and she did. He indicated the F, C, and G, and their relation to staves. What were staves? What were ledger lines? What is tess-eh-toor-ah? He corrected her pronunciation and told her. How was she to know the difference between treble and bass, or alto and tenor? What would he teach her? Did he have any more books? What should she study?

Who was this witch before him?

She was not Lady Hermione, surely. Lady Hermione, as Draco had described when he asked after her, was insufferable. She was flawed, posed endless nuisances, pathetically desperate for attention, obsessed with appearance, and the bratty whine of her voice would make a saint want to chop off her ears with a sledgehammer.

Now that he thought of it, however, he realized he had not seen a single trait Draco described in any of his meetings with the girl. Of course, he'd just figured she had been putting up an act of modesty to impress him, as so many other witches attempted and failed to do back at Hogwarts where the purity so in-fashion was practically an anomaly.

Here in the privacy of her home and far from the public eye though, Hermione Malfoy had no reason to act – unless she was determined to deceive him for whatever reasons. But Voldemort knew what deceivers looked like, knew their air and overly-studious eyes and sly habits, and this girl was most certainly not one of them.

This could only mean one thing. It could only mean that everything he saw - from the gentle voice and earnest eyes, to the uneasy squirms and nervous twitching of delicately-boned fingers – were in all their entirety – somehow – totally un-fabricated. She was like a china doll come to life. Like a contemporary Juliet, submissive and unquestioningly obedient, a passive observer to all around her.

He'd never met anyone more utterly innocent in his life, and he certainly hadn't thought such a person could exist outside of fairy tales; much less last sixteen years in the late 1800s.

He wondered what face lay underneath that mask she wore.

Hermione stared at Master Riddle expectantly, heart pumping and cheeks flushed with excitement. She had never been so interested by a subject, and where Umbridge would have paused or stuttered he hadn't failed to answer a single question; he even made her rethink certain points and corrected her. He was refreshing. He was brilliant and handsome and –

Staring at her as if she had sprouted horns.

_Oh Ladybird, _Miss Pross fretted. _Now you've done it. He thinks you're out of your mind!_

_He's not wrong either, _Satan said unhelpfully.

She felt her tongue go dry in the oppressing silence and averted her eyes, to the piano keys resting expectantly under Master Riddle's still hands. "Did I, ah, speak out of turn, Master Riddle?" she made herself say.

Master Riddle blinked then, dark eyes refocusing and swiveling back to her once again. A handsome half-smile turned his mouth. "Of course not, Lady Hermione. I apologize. I seem to have lost my track of thought…"

_His eyes are very dark,_ Psyche whispered. _They are almost as black as the River Styx._

Were they?

Hermione checked.

They were.

She looked away the second she realized she was staring and Master Riddle began shuffling through music sheets, a slight smirk on his lips. She snuck another glance at him. His long eyelashes sent thin shadows skittering down his cheekbones, fluttering down her spine. Why did she find him so distracting?

"There, all ready," he said, once the papers were spread neatly and the one he wanted propped up. "Let's give it a go."

She stared at him. "Give…give what a go, Master Riddle?"

"The piano. You do want to learn how to play, don't you?"

"Oh. Yes, Master Riddle." Face hot, she rose and approached him, coming to a stop behind the bench. The feet between them made her stomach twist with nerves. The feeling worsened when he spoke next.

"What is it, Lady Hermione?" he said impatiently. "Do I smell? Is that why you distance yourself so?"

Satan howled at her horrified expression. Miss Pross, in the meantime, swelled to the size of Great Britain and had a row worthy of champions.

"Well?" he demanded.

"O-Of course not, Master Riddle," she said hastily. "It's just– I mean, you don't, um, ah, er, ee…"

"Then am I to teach you to play piano while standing up?"

She shook her head quickly.

"Well then, logic says you must sit, doesn't it?"

"Right. Of course." She sat down. Her large skirts, luckily, kept at least a foot of space between them. She looked over her shoulder at the open door nervously, as if Bridget or Lord Malfoy might walk by and see them so close at any moment.

"Your eyes need to be here," Master Riddle said sharply, pointing at the keys. She apologized and adjusted her gaze. "Now, most of the playing relies on form," he continued, "and while your posture is good your arms and hands are all wrong."

She frowned. "Then what do I do with them?"

"You hold them, like this." And he showed her the proper form, elbows slightly bent, each finger assigned to a specific key. She struggled to imitate him. "No, you're too stiff," he immediately said, shaking his head. "Relax. Let your forearm fall in the space between you and the piano. No, you're not a doll, a little more strength. Move your elbows more toward your middle. No, too much, less. Look at me."

She did, at his face, but then he looked aggravated and she realized he meant his form. She looked at his elbows quickly, flushing. "There. See where mine are?" She nodded. "Copy them. Do as I do."

She tried – and failed to do so miserably.

"Your forearm and hand should be relaxed, but not so much that they are heavy and bang into the keys. Sit a little farther back, don't perch or you'll just fall right under the piano."

He stopped, watching her struggle to follow his instructions without success. A little huff of frustration escaped her and she finally just let her arms flop back to her sides. This part had seemed much easier in the book. Her lesson was proceeding horrendously.

"I apologize, Master Riddle. I'm not very good at this."

He pursed his lips. "No, you aren't."

She fidgeted.

"Here." He stood and came around behind her, making her stiffen at the sensation of his height looming over her back. She tried to turn, but he stopped her with a quick word and she refaced the piano.

"Lift your arms, Lady Hermione."

She did, as if Master Riddle was a marionette and she the puppet, and they hung carefully suspended in the air while she waited.

Then his fingers wrapped around them.

Gloves were not a part of Hogwarts uniform, and her breath caught on seeing his long fingers – paler than she thought they might be and strangely quite spiderlike – fold around her sleeves. She stiffened, tensing further when the movement caused her to bump into his chest. Body heat warmed her neck, and at the sensation, her mind went completely blank for an instant.

No one except Lord Malfoy or Bridget was allowed to touch her. Not even her own brother, Draco.

According to the rules.

According to everything she'd ever known.

"I…I…ah-" she stuttered.

"I'm only showing you proper form, Lady Hermione," he said, but his voice was not as steely now. It was almost…velvety. Or had it been like that the entire hour? She swallowed. "Eyes on the keys. Try to keep up."

She couldn't find it in herself to say yes, but managed a small nod. She did not want to tell him about the rules. She did not want him to move away.

Master Riddle arranged her forearms so they were parallel to the floor, pulling them back and then pushing her elbows in slightly, hands moving up to grip hers and position the fingers on the keys correctly. She felt herself go lax, but not so limp as to lose hold over herself altogether – which is what Master Riddle must have wanted, because he did not criticize her once in the quiet.

She began to analyze his touch, the hard press of his hands and tight gripping fingers, as they tampered with her. He was not terribly careful or delicate as Bridget was when she dressed her, or when Lord Malfoy skimmed his fingers over her head. He was firm and strong, like it did not even occur to him that she might be fragile as glass or more breakable than porcelain. Or maybe he just did not care whether or not she was.

It was a... new feeling.

"Master Riddle," she said softly, breaking the quiet. "Why did you give me a diary?"

His hands ceased their tweaking at this, although they did not remove themselves from her elbows, and Master Riddle's stillness – for some reason – made her uneasy. He could have vanished from the room entirely, if not for the thumbs lightly drawing circles over her arms. She watched those fingers raptly, stunned and unable to draw a single breath.

No one was ever-

"Diary?" he finally said, seemingly confused. "What diary?"

"The one in the music booklet, of course." She frowned. "Bridget gave it to me-"

The bell of the clock tolled, marking four-thirty and cutting her short. Master Riddle pulled away with a small laugh. "Practice writing the notes for tomorrow, Lady Hermione. Perhaps you can even do it in this little diary you've been telling me about." His amusement made her flush with embarrassment. "I will see you tomorrow. Goodnight."

And he left.

Bridget came and drew her a bath that smelled of roses. Hermione dressed in a silk nightgown and said prayers. In bed, she watched the moonlight draw slivers on the wooden floor through the gaps between drapes and gossamer. Staring at Master Riddle's picture. Remembering. And thinking hard.

She lit a gas-lamp and wrote music notes into the diary all night.

* * *

_E, g, d, b, f , _Hermione wrote in one corner of the page. The lines of the treble clef. _F, a, c, e. _The spaces went into the opposite corner.

Umbridge asked her what in the name of Lord Merlin she thought she was doing and when she told her, the tutor made her write one hundred lines _I-will-not-doodle-nonsense-on-my-professor's-textb ooks _and sipped tea out of a flourescent-pink cup as she did it, grumbling something about inkless quills and rich brats.

Hermione was glad when she left.

_She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through the streets… remained immovable when the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knife–long ready–hewed off his head._

And then three hundred forty-one pages later into _A Tale of Two Cities_, Madame Defarge was ended_._

_But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness._

Hermione finished her story soon after, liking the last lines of the classic as much as she liked the first, and she ate supper alone. Madame Defarge and Miss Pross argued in different languages throughout the meal. Downstairs, Master Riddle dined with Narcissa and Draco. Lord Malfoy had been called to an emergency meeting.

Meetings which Dumbledore had been holding more often, as of late.

How much longer would it be until six-thirty? She felt she couldn't wait another second.

When Bridget came to escort Hermione to the lesson she did not let her handmaid fret over her hair or dress, and she was already at the door when she arrived, out of it in the next moment with Bridget hot on her heels. Draco cast her a dark look on the stair, and she and Bridget curtsied - Bridget dropping much lower than she – but her brother did not dare say anything in the Muggleborn's presence and continued on as if he hadn't noticed them.

He was in one of his tempers; Hermione could sense it, as one could sense a thunderstorm slowly closing in on the grey horizon.

Hopefully, she wouldn't run into him alone tonight.

"Hello Master Riddle," Hermione greeted when she arrived, sitting down on the armchair again and folding her hands. "How are you this evening?"

"Well." He flipped vigorously through the music sheets. "Did you practice, Lady Hermione?"

She confirmed this.

"How much do you know? Recite the notes of the treble clef and then bass."

She did, hesitating only once on the lines of bass but succeeding in the end. It wasn't too hard to learn them. After all, music was just another language to learn, with different grammar and accents and stresses of sound. Master Riddle nodded once she was finished.

"Come," he said. "We'll try playing today."

She rose to a stand and the skin under the many layers hiding it tingled as she sat down, repositioning her skirts and sliding into the pose he had taught her. He corrected her form at least a dozen times, but did not touch her as he had in their first lesson four days past. He hadn't so much as put a finger on her since then, actually.

Perhaps someone had told him about the rules?

For some reason, this dismayed her.

"How was your day at school, Master Riddle?" she said politely, to fill the quiet with something other than the sounds of amateur tinkling. She had always loved the idea of school, of an entire institution created for the sole purpose of learning with hundreds of wizards and witches her age there. Draco would never talk to her about Hogwarts though.

"Pleasant," he said distractedly, flipping ever faster through sheets. She tapped out a few more notes.

_First 'well' and now 'pleasant,' _grumbled Madame Defarge in rapid French. _Does the boy say nothing more than a single word?_

He must be unhappy with her, Hermione thought. She must have annoyed him yesterday and he now regretted accepting to be her tutor, regretted ever coming here to the manor. Perhaps she should improve her work ethic? Yes, she would do that, and have alto and tenor memorized for tomorrow, and practice her form before going to bed and… And…

The clock bell tolled far too soon, marking seven-thirty.

"Goodnight, Lady Hermione," Master Riddle said and rose from the bench. She watched him go, the lean shape of his physique rising, the neat shoulders giving an elegant roll, the bone-white wand handle peek out of his pocket only to be tucked back by a run of his fingertips before he disappeared through the door.

Her fingers gave a slight tremor.

She did not speak as Bridget escorted her back to her room, nor did she speak through the bathing or plucking or dressing. Her mind was tormented by thoughts of a dark-haired wizard. She thought about the diary. She fell asleep in the middle of her reading.

_She fell asleep_.

Ears did not hear the door that opened and shut with a soft click.

Floorboards creaked.

The mattress bowed as a form dipped it.

Hermione's eyes flew wide open, but saw nothing but blackness in the suffocating dark. White noise screamed through her head, jamming in her ear drums and behind her eye sockets. _No_, she thought desperately. _Not tonight._ _Not-_

The scent of laudanum burned her nostrils and fingers pulled through her loose hair gently. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, wetting the pillow, as he sat on the duvet.

He didn't say a word.

He only stared from outside all that screaming white noise, beating at her brain like angry hammers, wrung through her ears like a thin string of floss, of evil sound, that made her jaws clench against it and turned fear so poignant she could taste the concentrated sweetness of it on her tongue. Her hands shook so horribly they started to buzz like bees, to emit white noise, too, to twitch and flex and tremble and clench and _scratch scratch _like demon claws.

Then the staring eyes were gone and the door closed and the bed vibrated with her tremors and the ceiling flopped to the floor, sliding her up and down with it, rocking her, smacking her, chattering her teeth, laughing at her frantic gasps and the violent shaking in her hands. The white noise receded. Her jaws clicked open with a sharp clack.

_He's gone, _Miss Pross soothed. _Come now, Ladybird, it's alright._

Psyche smiled. _Be brave like me. Grin and beret. You'll be fine._

"Stop it," Hermione whispered, staring intently at the moonlight ebbing across the floor. It looked like liquid silver. No, it looked like faery wine. No, no, it looked like spilled blood surrounding La Guillotine in scarlet gallons, drenching the streets of Paris and her rebels, drowning everyone, slaughtering endlessly.

_It's alright. _

_You'll be fine. _

_Come now._

_Grin and beret._

_Would you include me in your whisperings to the Lord, angel?_

_Angelangelangelangel-_

"I don't want to listen anymore!" she shouted. "Alright?"

Miss Pross and Psyche went quiet at this.

And, blessedly, she was finally left alone.

* * *

**AN: 'Date of Breath,' the chapter title, is a Shakespearean phrase meaning **_**interval of life. **_** Quotes throughout the chapter hail from **_**A Tale of Two Cities. **_**Miss Pross and Madame Defarge, the last of characters joining Hermione's mental dialogues, are enemies in the book if you haven't read it. Miss Pross is an English 'mother hen' and Madame Defarge is one of the main rebels in the French Revolution. They're pretty bad ass ladies.**

**SO, there was finally some Master-Riddle-Hermione-interaction! It was brief, but it will now be in every chapter, and we got to see into Voldemort's psychosis for a bit too (that's always fun, yeah yeah?). **

**You all know I love to hear your thoughts on DD, so pretty pwease leave them in a review below! **** Questions are always answered in updates. Cyber kisses are given freely. **

**Curtsies,  
ImmortalObsession**


	4. A Terribly Beautiful Plan

**AN: Welcome back, my lovelies. *gushy kissy noises* OK, so I'm **_**so **_**uber glad you're all on-board with this, and your reviews were awesometastic. In response to the ending of the last chapter, there was a half-and-half mix of confusion and some really good speculations. Some readers asked, you know, **_**what the hell was that? **_

**Mystery, guys. _Mystery._ **

**But if you have any ideas about what is going on in Malfoy Manor or anything, please leave them in a review or send me a PM. I give hints…sometimes. ;)**

**In answer to the questions asking after Master Riddle's malicious intentions; he's out for **_**all **_**the Malfoys (and Lestranges), including Hermione. *****cue evil laughter* Also, some of the diary concept is cleared up in this chapter, which I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading. :) **

* * *

_"Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil,_  
_as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave,_  
_or tortured the living animal to lifeless clay?_  
_…I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation_  
_but for this one pursuit."_  
– Mary Shelley,_ Frankenstein_

* * *

Lord Malfoy left for Paris the following morning.

When Lady Hermione did not answer the knocks on her door or Bridget's calls, her handmaid assumed she was asleep and returned an hour later. This time, she went inside her lady's chambers. The handmaid left white-faced and told all the other servants to stay away from the east side of the second floor, owling Professor Umbridge and cancelling the day's lessons.

Bridget brought Lady Hermione breakfast and finally got her out of bed with some coaxing, brushing her long chestnut-brown hair into a plait and selecting a fine white dress for her. Lady Hermione sent her away after and told her not to come back. She said she was tired.

Bridget left.

Voldemort walked the grand halls of Malfoy Manor, looking for a place to smoke before he and Draco headed down to the train station. The Malfoys were so revoltingly rich, he'd bet every last cent he had that if he asked for an ashtray made of emeralds and diamonds to stub his cig out in, he'd get one without a blink of the eye. Purebloods knew no value in money or expenses – in anything besides new reproduction laws or ways to make incest look less disgusting.

His mental monologue was cut short by voices.

Voldemort stopped just before rounding the bend of the hallway, never one to miss an opportunity for information. He recognized them now. The first voice was a woman's and annoyingly high-pitched – that Emma girl – and the other belonged to Lady Hermione's handmaid, a fact he only knew because the Mudblood always chaperoned during their lessons. He listened closely.

"…and I need to go through there to get Lady Malfoy's laundry," Emma was saying. "She wants a specific dress clean and if I don't get it to her spiffy and pressed the way she likes, she's gonna haves her a fit-"

"Alright, alright, go then," the other servant said in exasperation. "But tell the others to stay away. The poor dear is in one of her…ah..._spells_ again."

There was a tense silence and Voldemort frowned, waiting for the other Mudblood to respond. What the bloody hell did they mean by a 'spell'? Surely, they did not refer to the magical kind.

"She'll come out of it, won't she?"

"O' course, o' course. M'lady always does."

"How long do you think-?"

"There's no telling. Last time, it lasted up to a week. She wouldn't eat one thing, but I got her to have some breakfast earlier so I s'ppose it won't be so bad as that-"

Footsteps sounded from the other side of the hall and the servants broke apart, scattering in opposite directions before they could be caught gossiping. One was headed his way and Voldemort straightened, making himself known just as Emma rounded the corner. She skittered to a halt and gasped at the sight of him.

"G-good morning, M-Master Riddle," she stammered weakly. "Um, may I get you anything?"

"What's wrong with Lady Hermione?" he asked.

The Mudblood's eyes grew saucer-sized.

"Oh please, Master Riddle, don't tell," she begged. "We weren't hurtin nobody, we weres just talking, innocent talking, I swears-"

"I don't care what you were doing," he said impatiently. "I asked you a question. What is wrong with Lady Hermione?"

"She's ill. That's all I know," Emma said, moving her laundry basket from hip to hip and looking anxious. He raised a brow. "No, reallys, sir! Bridget knows about Lady Hermione, not me. M'lady is Lady Malfoy and it's her I tend to. Anything I hears about her daughter is just t-talk is all. Yous got to ask Bridget if you want to know anymore, cause I dunno about it, I don', I don'—"

"I get it."

Emma shut up, peering at him warily, and he smiled at her. At this, she looked even warier.

"I'm simply concerned for her, because you see, we have lessons today and I would be very sorry for her to miss them," he explained softly. "You understand that, don't you?"

She nodded slightly.

"Exactly. So, I only wanted to know, is she well enough to attend?"

"Well… I knows Bridget cancelled lessons with that other tutor she has, Missus Umbridge," Emma mumbled.

"I see. Lady Hermione must be feeling very out of sorts then, hm?"

"I s'ppose, Master Riddle."

"And this has happened before?"

Emma checked over her shoulder briefly, then behind his. Once satisfied they were the only ones there, she admitted, "Yes, quite a few times, actually. Since Lady Hermione was a little tyke." She looked at him sharply. "But we ain'ts allowed to talk about such things, Master Riddle. Lord Malfoy don' want no gossip getting around…"

"Of course. I simply wanted to be sure Lady Hermione was alright." He added, "Thank you, by the way."

"Er... yes sir." It sounded like a question. Emma flushed, gripping her laundry basket tighter and bidding him a good morning again before she hurried away.

He lit up.

_Spells. _Voldemort watched the countryside blur by through the fogged windows of the Hogwarts Express, ignoring the Slytherins in the compartment around him and knowing very well that the spells the Malfoy's servants had whispered about in the empty halls of their master's manor were not those taught at his school. If anything, it sounded to him like there were more secrets at Malfoy Manor than he'd bargained for.

It seemed Lady Hermione might be one of them.

This, of course, meant a change of plans were in order.

* * *

The bells of the clocks tolled through the manor at thirty minute intervals. Hermione lay back on her bed, studying the coffered ceilings. Counting each and every chiseled square. Humming to herself.

Psyche was ignoring Satan, who presently watched Miss Pross and Madame Defarge have another spat with blatant delight. Still, Hermione had the feeling Psyche was starting to fancy the demon, the angel fallen out of God's good graces. Psyche had always been weak when it came to following rules, to staying away from the forbidden, and Satan was well-versed in the arts of seduction.

_Like I said, _Satan whispered. _She's just another Eve. _And he laughed and laughed and Hermione smiled a little, chuckling too. The sound echoed hollowly throughout the room. Rattled like bones beaten against a xylophone.

"What do you think Master Riddle is doing?" she said. "It's well over four o'clock, so he must have come home with Draco already."

_Master Riddle. _Psyche sighed longingly. _He is so very mysterious._

She thought of the diary and nodded. "He is, isn't he?"

Satan rolled his eyes. _Women, it's no wonder you're all descendants of-_

_Prometheus made me, actually, _Psyche pointed out, and Miss Pross looked appalled and called her unchristian, to which Madame Defarge immediately disagreed although she didn't speak a word of English.

The women dissolved into another row.

_Back to the original point of conversation, _said Satan pointedly. _I believe you should find out how Master Riddle is doing yourself._

_But she isn't allowed out of her room when Lord Malfoy isn't home, especially now that he is out of the country. Oh, she could get into so much trouble. Perhaps we should wait until the music lessons, come tomorrow? _said Psyche in her usual compromising way.

_Ladybird, in trouble? _Miss Pross puffed out her bosom. _Over my dead body._

_What did she say? _Madame Defarge demanded. Hermione translated. _Pft. That can be easily arranged, mon amie. Easily arranged…_

_Narcissa is never home when Lord Malfoy leaves for Dumbledore. She's probably with Lucia Black, at one of those saloons in Hogsmeade. _Satan smiled mischievously. _She'll never know._

"Nor would she care," Hermione said and closed her eyes, humming louder until she couldn't hear any of them anymore. Until she couldn't hear the sound of her fingernails scraping her skin, itchy and chaffing. Until the clunking of her heartbeat overcame all else.

It was pitch-black outside when she finally got out of bed.

She summoned _Frankenstein _from the enchanted frame hanging over her bed, flipping it open to the page she last read and pulling irritably at the collar of the velvet dress she'd never changed out of. She moved an ottoman to the window and sat down, reading her story by aid of moonlight. The breeze made her shiver. Victor Frankenstein was snivelling uselessly over the monster he'd created, yet again.

Some minutes later, she glanced up – and Mary Shelley's bestseller promptly flew out her hands.

Because on the other side of the manor and across the courtyard in the window directly opposite hers was one of the guestrooms. In particular, it was Master Riddle's guestroom. And he was inside it.

Dressing for bed.

Hot blood crept up her neck and she knew that she should draw the curtains immediately, to forget any of this ever happened, to _not _just sit there and stare like a mindless duck the way she did this instant.

Why did he have to change in front of the blasted window?

Why couldn't she pull away her eyes, or remember any of the etiquette lessons Umbridge forced her through? Why, why, why?

Master Riddle undid the top button of his shirt and the rest followed steadily. Hermione receded to the very edge of the window, half-hiding behind the curtain and glancing around frantically to see if anyone was out there to catch her spying. She was being horrible, she knew.

She couldn't stop looking though.

Especially when she saw his chest, lean and taut without one single blemish under the open button-down His broad shoulders curved down into muscled arms, flexing as he ran a hand through his hair and cast an absent look about him. And saw her.

_Oh,_ _damn it all._

She was going to die of humiliation – if Psyche didn't kill her for ruining the moment first, that is.

Hermione lurched out of sight a second too late, nearly falling off the ottoman in her haste to escape, and she saw Master Riddle raise a brow and wander forward to the frosted glass. His dark eyes searched her window and he smirked when he saw her, huddled in the corner and blushing furiously.

He gave her a mockingly deep bow at the waist, as if to say _thank you sincerely for coming to the show_.

_The nerve of him! _Miss Pross blustered, puffing out her bosom and going red in the face. Hermione cheeks were so hot they prickled.

Gathering herself, she stood up and came to the center of the pane, grasping the edges of the drapes with all the dignity she could muster. She was about to pull them shut when Master Riddle cocked his head, catching her eye and gesturing for her to stop. She did, although she didn't know why.

Master Riddle reached for the cuffs of his shirt with a mischievous glint in his gaze. Her mouth fell open as he slowly – very slowly – shrugged off the rest of the shirt. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself for a split-second, her eyes darting from his sculpted chest back to his chiseled features quickly. A grin snuck across his mouth. Smug_. Handsome._

She looked away, flushing, and pulled the curtains shut.

* * *

The spell was over.

Lady Hermione had her meals, lessons with Umbridge, and she smiled and laughed and was gentle. She would have her music lessons tonight and be ready for bed on time. Bridget was highly relieved. Yes, all was quite well for her lady.

_What are you doing? _Psyche asked curiously, watching as Hermione rifled through the cream jars and fragrance bottles, powders, hairpins and brushes littering the surface of her vanity. Meanwhile, Miss Pross glared at the Greek beauty from behind her copy of the Bible, propping the sacred text up as if it were a shield. As for Madame Defarge and Satan – the two had been strangely quiet today.

"Ah, there!" She snatched up a quill and some parchment triumphantly. "I'm going to write another list."

_Oh. That's it? _

Hermione rolled her eyes and wrote down the books she wanted Bridget to purchase when she sent her to London next. She needed the complete set of the Divine Comedy and some other sequels, for instance, and right now she very much needed a new book to read. Her fingers positively itched for it.

Perhaps she could chance a visit to the family library?

Draco and Master Riddle were already back from school, true, and Lord Malfoy did not allow her out of her room when there were guests unless she had lessons or a special obligation of some sort. That was plenty reason not to go.

But Narcissa was at the saloon again.

And she really did want a book.

* * *

The scent of pages and ink and ink and pages soothed the senses as soon as Hermione walked through the library's open doors. The servants must have been polishing the floors today, she thought, since they always left the doors ajar to air out the smell. She went down to the nonfiction section.

As she idled from aisle to aisle, it occurred to her that the toxic odor of wood polish was absent and that there were no servants to be seen, for that matter. She slid a rejected book back in place on the shelf. Simultaneously, a thunk sounded from the other side of the aisle.

She froze.

Not daring to make a sound, Hermione slowly put down her large pile of texts and backed away from the source of noise. She lifted her skirts and bent a little, looking through the empty space between tomes and alphabetically ordered scrolls to see a shape on the opposite side. Her breath caught when long white fingers roved over the book spine she'd just replaced, pulling it out and pausing.

She skittered back, praying to Lord Merlin he wouldn't see her.

Master Riddle put the book down.

Her whole bosom heaved with the inhale of air she took – how was it that he kept appearing everywhere she looked? – and she made for a quick escape, but the sound of her heel hitting the floor seemed to shatter through the vast room like slammed cymbals. _Blast!_

Master Riddle's head whipped up, dark eyes catching her so fast they trapped her as a powerful python did a bird. A hot blush immediately spread from the top of her forehead all the way down to her toes and she faltered, staring back at him as if someone had Stupefied her. Then again, every one of her limbs seemed to be frozen solid. Perhaps someone had?

"Tom, where are you?"

The call came from her left and she looked, Master Riddle's eyes moving with hers, to see her brother Draco tracking mud across the pristine library. He had the latest Firebolt slung over his shoulder and wore thick winter boots under school robes - boots that presently trailed wet slush and dirt over every inch of the recently waxed floors. He looked a fright with his flushed cheeks and wild bleached hair, twisted free from the smoothing submission of brilliantine and going in all directions. He'd been practicing.

"Tom," her brother hissed. "Where are-?" And that was when the icy blue eyes stopped scoping the aisles for his schoolmate, landing on her instead. She straightened and darted a glance at the gap of books where Master Riddle stood – but he was gone.

"Why hello, brat," Draco drawled.

"Good evening, Draco." Her fingers twisted nervously as he came toward her, weaving a hand through his hair as if to try and tame it – and failing to, at that. He glanced at the towering shelves around them disinterestedly. "How do you do?" she said politely.

"Fine. Seen Tom anywhere?"

Tom? Who was Tom?

_He means Master Riddle, _whispered Psyche helpfully.

"Hello? Over here, idiot." Draco snapped his fingers in front of her eyes and she started, blinking at him. He smirked. "You're acting odd, aren't you? Or at least, more so than usual."

She didn't respond and he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes when she immediately shrunk a little. What the bloody hell was she so nervous for? Draco thought, aggravated, and asked again whether she'd seen Tom.

"I saw Master Riddle just a moment ago in passing," she said. "He was here."

His gaze darkened.

"Is that all, Draco?" she said timidly, as if the quieter she was, the less likely her brother's impending temper was to strike.

As if things could be so simple.

"I heard you were ill yesterday." He stared at her hands now, clutching each other tightly. "What happened? Did you get a splinter? See a mouse?"

She paled. A vicious grin spread across his face. "Oh, I see. It was that…_twitching…_wasn't it?"

_Lie, _Satan hissed. _Lie now._

"Don't be silly. Of course not, I-I-I was in bed," she stammered. "Sick with fever."

"Oh really?"

She nodded.

"Hm. Alright then." He began to go and her shoulders slumped, relief spinning through in a dizzying spell, but just then Draco spun back around and grabbed her before she had the chance to get away, jerking off her gloves in one lightning-fast movement and throwing them to the ground.

And he _roared. _

Oh, they were absolutely hideous. Pale thin fingers, twitching in the open air like dragonflies whose wings had been plucked off, were covered in criss-crossing scars and fresh scaly welts that glared angry red in the evening light. Hermione shrieked, trying to jerk away.

"Good Lord, they're revolting," Draco said, positively beside himself with laughter. "What in Merlin's name did you do this time? Put a hot iron to your skin-?"

"Draco."

Their heads snapped up at the interjection, and Hermione's stomach sank through her feet to see their visitor. Lo and behold, Master Riddle stood not too far away, situated at the end of the aisle with a book tucked under his arm and raised brow in place. Horror clamped down on Hermione fast. _Lord Merlin._ How long had he stood there watching them? Did he see her hands? The scars? She stepped back and Draco let her, just as equally stunned as she.

"Tom," he said, recovering. "I was just looking for you-"

"Don't you have a Potions exam to study for?" Master Riddle interrupted. The last of Draco's cocky smile slipped from his features. "I told your father I'd help you get better marks," he said, "but I can't very well do that if all you do is play Quidditch, now can I?"

"Of course." Draco was awkward. "Sorry, Tom. I'll just be…"

"Studying."

Her brother nodded and his sloshy footsteps tracked mud all the way back out of the library, squelching noisily. Hermione bent down and retrieved her gloves, putting them on very slowly and hoping Master Riddle would be gone by the time she stood again. He probably wanted to flee the premises immediately, to make his escape lest he be forced to associate with barbarians such as they for a second longer.

She wished the floor would just open up right under her.

But instead of leaving or reprimanding her, like she'd expected, Master Riddle did nothing of the sort. In fact, he did something entirely different instead.

"Lady Hermione," he said quietly. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes. I'm just fine, Master Riddle." She couldn't bear to look at him. The lie was tart on her tongue. "Thank you for asking."

He stared at her for another moment, but she continued to study the floor and would not meet his gaze. "I will see you at our lessons," he finally said. "Good evening, Lady Hermione."

"Good evening, Master Riddle," she replied.

* * *

Bridget came to Hermione's chambers at a quarter past six for primping. Hermione sat patiently at the vanity as her hair was brushed and twisted into a low bun, her skin checked for blemishes, and the black stockings she wore traded for a white pair. Madame Defarge had returned and bickered with Miss Pross, the both of them telling each other off in different languages without the faintest idea what either one was saying. Hermione, for the first time ever, dreaded seeing Master Riddle.

How was she to look him in the eye now? To hear that handsome baritone without going redder than an apple with mortification? The diary, still inside her dresser drawer, was blank and empty save for the few pages she'd practiced writing music notes on. Perhaps she would write in it later for a healthy venting.

Psyche sighed.

And all too soon, she was in the music room and Bridget was wishing them a good evening, curtsying on her way out and leaving the door wide open. The edge of her starch-white cap peeked at them from just outside the door frame.

Master Riddle was not in the mood for pleasantries.

"We will no longer continue your piano instruction," he said, once she'd sat down, and she nodded. She had been expecting this.

Master Riddle laid the music sheets flat on the piano top and tapped out a few notes. Then he glanced at her, a telling smile on his lips. Wait, he was smiling? Why was he smiling when he had just quit her? "You are a horrendous pianist, you know." Bewildering her further, he tacked a wink on at the end of his statement.

A _wink_.

The warm blush that exploded across her cheeks would put Umbridge's most vivid outfit to shame. It deepened when Master Riddle stood, crossing the room and perching on the chair beside her. More furniture had been added to the previously bare room since they'd begun using it. Her gaze flitted to the glass and she was unwillingly reminded of last night, when she saw him half-naked through her bedroom window.

_Control yourself, _Miss Pross snapped.

"As soon as the shipments Lord Malfoy ordered arrive, we'll find a new instrument for you," Master Riddle continued, getting comfortable. He looked very attractive and boyish in his school uniform, she could not help noticing. "But until then, continue studying your book and the notes you learned. You'll need them memorized well – very well – if you're to play anything."

"Yes, Master Riddle," she said, not without surprise. How could he not be leaving, after what he'd witnessed today? How could he even _consider _staying here with them a day longer?

Psyche was ecstatic, naturally.

"But what are we to do for the rest of the lesson?" Hermione said curiously.

"We can chat, if you'd like." The full-force of Master Riddle's dark eyes was riveted solely on her now. She forced herself not to squirm. "But if you find yourself terribly bored by me, do feel free to go, Lady Hermione. I'd hate to torment you." He smirked.

There it was again, that squeamish feeling! What on earth was that?

She looked away, unsure of this clash of new emotions and finding the sparkling black piano the safest thing to keep her eyes on. "I will bear that in mind, Master Riddle."

"Good." His fingers flitted over the ivory-colored wand poking out of his pocket, a gesture she was starting to recognize. She folded her hands in her lap. "May I ask you a question, Hermione?" he said, and she didn't miss the omission of her title. Or mind it, for that matter.

But he hadn't asked her to call him by his first name.

"Of course, Master Riddle," she responded. "What is it?"

"I hope you don't think me too forward, but I wondered what happened to your..." he trailed.

She stared. "I'm sorry?"

"In the library today, I happened to glimpse them." He looked apologetic. "I don't mean to embarrass you. I was only concerned."

_He saw them. _Madame Defarge picked up the knitting needles for her embroidery, a sign some unlucky aristocrat was about to join the waiting line for La Guillotine. Miss Pross swatted it out of her hands with a large scowl.

_You evil woman, you don't need to condemn every person you see to death, _Miss Pross barked, to which Madame Defarge replied most bitingly in French exactly what she would condemn _her _to.

They broke into a row.

"Hermione?" Master Riddle was worried now and he had somehow gotten closer, leaning on the armrest and threatening the space between them with his earnest eyes. She tensed. "I offended you, didn't I? I apologize. Please, forget I said anything-"

"No, you didn't." She smiled nervously. "I was only thinking."

"Oh?" he said, interested. "What about?"

"Um, your question," she said, surprised again by the inquiry after her thoughts. He was very attentive. "And whether or not I should answer it."

"Please do," Master Riddle said softly. His eyes were darker than ever now, intent on her. She blushed. "I'm very curious to know your answer."

"I'm sorry." She stared at her lap, missing the flash of frustration that glanced across Master Riddle's finely-carved features. "I…I can't tell you. It's very private."

Moreover, she didn't want to disgust him.

"I see," Master Riddle finally said and she worried she'd upset him somehow, glancing up to check his reaction. But his expression gave nothing away.

Inside though, Voldemort's thoughts were racing. Charisma wouldn't work on Lady Hermione, nor would heroics, apparently; that had been proven in the library earlier when he caught that idiot Draco terrorizing her. He needed a smarter plan, something that would work faster than a gentleman's charm to get her to spill every last secret she had. To tell him everything there was to know about the Malfoys.

To make her think he was on her side.

And she was so sheltered, so hard to reach through the set barrier and extra eyes constantly watching them. He had to find a way around that. No, he needed _her _to want to find a way around it and an incentive to do so – especially before Lord Malfoy returned. Her father was very protective of her.

An incentive…

"Do you like to read, Hermione?" he asked and she started, as if he'd awakened her from a very deep sleep or an entire other world. She did that often. "Is that why you were in the library earlier?"

"Um, yes." She nodded. "I enjoy reading very much."

"Why do you read? For academics? For pleasure?"

"For pleasure mainly, Master Riddle." She sounded shy.

Seeing the flush that spread across her neck, it suddenly occurred to Voldemort exactly what he must do, what trick needed to be played – and how hadn't he thought of it before? It was so blatantly obvious now. Lady Hermione, although different from most, was still a girl. And what girl didn't adore romance? What girl wouldn't leap through fiery hoops to save it? What better incentive could there be than _a forbidden love?_

And how gratifying it would be to captivate her, to see the pain in those brown eyes when he snapped her glass heart into pieces, to see Lord Malfoy's rage at his darling daughter's fleeting fancy. It would certainly make destroying the Malfoys more interesting.

Hermione eyes ensnared his again, and darted away just as quickly. She was a very nervous sort, he observed - and that would make seducing her all the more enjoyable.

When the toll of the clock marked the end of their lesson, it also marked the beginning of a terribly beautiful plan.

* * *

Music.

Hermione heard music.

_Stay in bed, Ladybird, _Miss Pross advised wisely. _You know what Lord Malfoy said about going out at night, it is dangerous-_

_What did she say? _Madame Defarge asked. Satan translated. _Pft, danger and blood is my specialty. Praise La Guillotine! Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death, you emigrant!_

_I haven't the faintest idea what you're saying, _muttered Miss Pross.

_At least see what is out there_. This from Psyche, who looked curious. _Just look. _

Satan rolled his glaring red eyes. _I see the apple does not fall far from the tree.._. He grinned a second later. _Get it?_

"Be quiet, all of you." Hermione rose and they did, their bickering elapsing into abrupt silence. She listened intently to the whispers of piano that filtered under her door, to the staccato twinkles, to the heavy clangs and the ringing darkness that followed them. The song was enchanting as night.

Where did it come from?

She crept up to the door, about to go and find out, when another sound stopped her. This one came from behind her and it skittered, like the ribbed tappings of a typewriter. She turned around.

_The diary._

It was on top of the vanity and exactly where she'd left it before going to Master Riddle's lesson, but now its pages flipped and tossed erratically, as if possessed. She approached it cautiously, heart pounding a song nearly as frantic as the one whirl-winding all around her.

The diary's pages stopped turning.

Examining it, she saw the diary had come to a halt somewhere in the middle of its contents, on a blank yellowed page whose tapered corns fettered anxiously under her gaze. What was it doing? she wondered, mystified. Better yet, what had Master Riddle _given _her?

She snatched up the diary, as if touching it might break the spell, but she had quite the opposite effect on it instead. Ink started to appear on the page, flowing across quickly and forming letters… No, not letters. Numbers? No, it wasn't that either. She peered at the enigma, frowning, and saw…

Music notes.

They appeared at different times. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and eventually Hermione realized their arrivals coincided with the music that first woke her. She saw several quarter notes, followed by a _g _whole note, and she heard these sounds the precise time she saw them slicked across the pages. When the staffs were filled, the diary whipped to a fresh page to begin the chaotic dance all over again.

Master Riddle had given her his music diary.

But was it a mistake? Or did he do it purposely? And why did he pretend not to know what she was talking about when she asked?

Where did the music come from?

She opened the door and peered into the dimly-lit hallway, the diary tight in her grip. The glowing gaslights lit the nightgown she wore like a lantern, transforming the ghost white ruffles into a chiaroscuro of light verse dark: shadowy in a lightless hall, iridescent as she passed a window in the next.

The manor had seemed to transform into a haunt overnight.

Hermione was silent and nervous as she followed the music up another floor. The marble tiles felt frigid. Her thoughts kaleidoscoped. What if someone caught her out here? What if the source of music was something dark, something that should not be seen by human eyes? A siren calling her close with its syrup-sweet voice?

She felt helpless as Odysseus's crew to resist it.

Then she was there.

The dark, ominous sounds, she found, were coming from the music room. They were a hurricane of noise and torment that drew tears out of her, that made her want to scream and moan and dance all at once. They screamed. They swooned.

_Go in, _Satan murmured. _Have a look._

_Rules, _Miss Pross hastened to remind, stopping Hermione in a beat. _Do not forget the rules, Ladybird._ _Go back to your room. Don't make trouble. English flowers never make trouble._

Hermione bit her lip, indecisive.

_Or, _suggested Psyche suddenly, _just listen._

That was something Hermione could do. She stepped forward, breaths shallow and feet soundless. She knew who lay on the other side of the door. For who other than Master Riddle could play piano in this gargantuan house? But what was he doing up well past midnight, playing music? Didn't he have to go to school tomorrow? And what made the chords strike so hard, sound so empty and yet so rich, so chaotic? So lost?

She sat down in front of the door and pressed her ear close to it, listening and memorizing and feeling all of Master Riddle's music. Her heart beat fast as she imagined how he might look, his head bent over the piano, long fingers flying over the keys, hammering away and thrown into the bouts of passion and far past reconciliation. His dark eyes would bellow as the piano cried under his hands, his thin lip curled in concentration, the Cupid's bow of it begging to be traced by another mouth…

And he might catch her watching him. He might scold her for it or smile at her in that indecipherable way of his that made her pulse leap so. Maybe he'd have her sit down beside him, to correct her form and breeze those soft lips across the back of her hand, to breeze his lips over her neck and further down…

Hermione closed her eyes and listened.

* * *

**AN: Uh-oh. Hermione's turning into a little tricksy Eve, ain't she, Satan? *Satan agrees* Anywho, thanks for reading everyone. **** Queries? Any thoughts on Master Riddle's plan 2.0? His undeniable attractiveness? The lemons that are just chapters away? Romance? Anarchy? Violent gas?**

**Ignore that last one.**

**Kisses,  
ImmortalObsession**


	5. Bold

**AN: Thanks bunches to all of you little darlings who reviewed, faved, etc. You make my day. :) This update's FAQ mostly revolves around what's going on with Hermione's hands and Master Riddle's crazy-turn-around. *Madame Defarge cackles somewhere in 18th century France* So, _Laurie Jupiter _asked if Hermione has convulsions during her fits? She doesn't; she doesn't have fits at all actually. I mean, unless you're referring to 'the spells,' which we've yet to really witness in detail yet. But more on that later. **

**And it's awesome that you all seem to be into Master Riddle's latest schemes. I know a Voldemort that _supports _Mudbloods, not hates them, is a total flip-flop, but DD is AU and all so... Plus, I thought it'd be fun to throw things out of whack like that. Just to spice shit up. ;)**

* * *

_"City fast asleep. _  
_Clouds up on the hill. _  
_So quiet, so still. _

_Dreams of rain in sheets, _  
_Dreams of ice and wings. _  
_So delicate, these things"_

- Vienna Teng, _Now Three_

* * *

For the next three nights, Hermione sat outside of the music room listening to chords quake and soar sky high.

Lord Malfoy soon sent his Patronus from France, confirming a safe arrival in Paris and much success with the French Ministry. He would return in two weeks' time.

Hermione had received a new gown from her father in a neat box with a red bow on the top and a small card attached. _With love, _it read, _Daddy dearest. _ The dress was deep turquoise and high-necked with long, dripping sleeves delicate as butterfly wings and droopy as tear drops. It was all the rage in Paris, supposedly.

Draco watched her and Bridget leave the parlor where everyone had gathered to hear Lord Malfoy's message, eying the clothing box she held. There had been no mail for him.

There would be no lessons today.

Hermione sighed, watching rain dribble down the pane of her bedroom window slowly. Why did it have to be Saturday? She had no use for a Saturday. There was no instruction with Umbridge, no homework to be done, and she wasn't stupid enough to chance going to the library again. Even worse, she would not see Master Riddle until Monday. The weekends were his days off and surely, he had more important things to do than idle in their ancient manor...

Narcissa and Draco left for shopping in Hogsmeade.

The quiet grated her ears.

She sniffed. Why did she smell nicotine? The servants weren't allowed to smoke on the premises and everyone else had left by now. She stood up from her desk, going to the window and staring out at the slate-grey sky. It looked dreary with all that drizzle.

She looked down, past the stories of red brick and into the neat courtyard. The grounds were set with umbrageous walks, alcoves, and grottoes. A lush green carpet of grass had been replaced by three feet of snow and the fine lawn was now an ivory blanket, dotted with giant white marble statues of Greek deities.

From here, she could see Venus standing in a stone fountain, a stream of water impenetrable to the cold due to the handiness of a Heating Charm running out the statue's parted mouth and into the basin below. Fat silver and copper fish darted around her ankles and over the gem-encrusted bottom. Rare crystals and spars glittered among mother o' pearl under all the sea life.

A plume of smoke interrupted the pretty scene.

It flowed from a figure on the edge of the view, reclined against the brick wall and out of Mother Nature's shooting range. He stood beneath the large roof jutting out floors above him, smoking.

It was Master Riddle.

She jumped back, although there was no way he could possibly see her all the way up here, and after a few heart-pounding moments she cautiously peered out again. Master Riddle was still out there, looking elegant and dignified in a black silk vest, white dress shirt underneath, and charcoal-grey trousers. She couldn't make out anything else, except his dark hair.

It occurred to her then that he didn't do his hair like most Purebloods. Instead of shining it with brilliantine or slicking it back, he wore it natural and parted to the side. His hair looked so soft it could have been a black smudge against the wet landscape outside.

Could she go out there?

_You could, _Psyche whispered. _Just to say hello. What's the harm in that?_

_Ladybird could get in trouble. _That's _the harm, you foolish pagan! _Miss Pross countered hotly.

Psyche rolled her eyes. Madame Defarge clicked her knitting needles at Miss Pross menacingly.

_Everyone's left, _Satan said, speaking up for the first time in the past few days. His red eyes slid to the door, suggestive and – of course – malignant. _No one will know. Threaten the Mudbloods if they try to say anything. _

"Don't be silly, I wouldn't do that." She glanced at the courtyard again. The rain was lifting. "But I'll go out," she murmured. "Just to say hello."

Satan grinned.

She donned a winter cloak, walking boots, and a parasol before going. Even if the sun was not visible at the moment, it could easily appear after a cloud passed and ruin her pale complexion. Lord Malfoy would be very displeased then. She knew from experience.

For once, when she was twelve, her father had made her drink white vinegar for a week and rub sour milk into her skin nightly because she'd sat outside reading one summer day and forgot to stay in the shade. She tanned easily and fairness had been reluctant to creep back into her skin, unfortunately for her.

The mere scent of cream now made her violently sick.

The servants bowed and curtsied to her when she passed, eyes varying between curiosity and admiration; between distaste and scorn. She slipped into the courtyard quietly, careful to stick to the sidewalks while she wound through. The cool air was refreshing. She scoped the grounds for Master Riddle.

Soon enough, she found her music teacher right where he'd been before – just under her bedroom window smoking a cig. He looked up at her approach, a smile coming easily to his attractive features. And she was glad she came.

"Hermione," he greeted when she stopped a few feet away. "What are you doing out here?"

_I could ask you the same thing, _Miss Pross harrumphed.

"I thought I'd come say hello, Master Riddle. I saw you from inside." He arched a brow at this and she blushed, saying, "Ah, how do you do?"

"Freezing." He sighed, a long exhale of smoke that clouded the air between them and turned his eyes stormy grey for an instant. She coughed. "And you?"

"I am well." But in truth, she was freezing too, and wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt at warmth. It was an unattractive pose Umbridge surely would have her writing lines for, _I-will-freeze-to-death-before-I-stick-my-hands-und er-my-arms-like-some-ungodly-chicken-again, _but she was too deathly cold to care. She would look like atheist poultry for the time-being.

Master Riddle gave another smoky exhale, taking in the spritz of gooseflesh on the sliver of neck between Hermione's collar and jaw when she was looking the other way. "You're sure you don't want to go inside?" he said skeptically. "It's warm there."

"Yes, I'm sure, thank you."

Another smoky exhale. "As you wish."

They stood there in silence for a while longer, until Master Riddle lit a new cig when his first ran short. He lit it up with a silent wave of his wand.

Hermione squinted at the brown roll between his spidery fingers. "You smoke Muggle cigarettes," she said, surprised.

Master Riddle gave a minute start at that, blinking at her. "Excuse me?"

"The label," she said, "it's a Muggle brand."

He looked amused. "Alas, but I do believe you are mistaken, Hermione. Look again." And she did, concentrating through the smoke to see… _Flour's Best_ scribbled on the wrapper. Oh.

"I could have sworn it said something else," she said, frowning. "I apologize, Master Riddle. It… it must've been a trick of the light."

"Of course," he allowed and then silence elapsed between them again, long and heavy. Master Riddle was the one to break it this time. "How do you know about Muggle cigs anyway?" he asked, with a creeping smirk. "It's not as if you've ever seen one. You don't get out the house often enough."

"If you must know, Master Riddle, I read about it," she replied coolly, miffed by his less than flattering account of her. "My handmaid brings me all sorts of books from Diagon Alley." Though the ones mentioning Muggle cigarettes were usually in those from London…

"You purchase books when you already have that extravagant family library of yours?" His tone was perfectly level, perfunctory even. "I do wonder, is there something lacking about the books there, Hermione?"

"No. It's just that I've already read them." He looked at her, surprised. "Besides," she continued. "I sometimes do take joy in reading something more stimulating than the newest copy of _Witch Weekly_ and etiquette pamphlets."

He snorted. "Careful now. Someone might find out you actually possess a sense of humor, your highness."

She blushed, slightly offended but at the same time somehow gratified – she'd made him laugh.

Master Riddle stared out at the courtyard, at the fog banks and garish lawn ornaments enshrouding them. He lifted the cig and instead of looking away, her eyes somehow got caught on his thin lips, wrapping around the brown end and sucking in a lungful, holding it there before they pursed and gently exhaled a stream of smoke that burned her eyes. She turned away, blinking rapidly.

"Hermione." She looked up, to find him holding out the burning cig to her. She stared at it, then him, not sure what he wanted her to do.

Master Riddle rolled his eyes. "Oh, as if you aren't dying of curiosity over there. Go on." He pushed the tip, still wet from his mouth, against her lips. She squeaked, aghast. "Try it."

Women never smoked. The only women who smoked were prostitutes or actresses or disgraced old bats or… Her thoughts chased each other endlessly, but they were cut off when Satan shoved her forward with a snarl, _Just do it!_

"Erm, alright." Blushing deeply, Hermione breathed in a whiff of nicotine. The smoke whipped down her throat in an acrid, burning wave, and she choked. Master Riddle pulled back with a deep laugh when she started sputtering. "Here, take this," he said, producing a handkerchief and giving it to her.

She spent two minutes coughing into the embroidered toilette like a horse sick with the flu. When she finally recovered, she wheezed, eyes watering, "H-how can you do that for _enjoyment?"_

"It's always disgusting on the first try." He was still laughing at her. She did not appreciate it. "The second try is the real one."

"Preposterous. It tastes absolutely awful."

A smoky exhale. Master Riddle – mysterious, handsome Master Riddle who was experienced in things she had yet to have ever heard of and one year her senior – regarded her with a lazy smile and hooded eyes. It was not the same smile from the newspaper clipping hidden under her corset, but one that made the squeamish feeling in her belly come back with a vengeance, tightening around her insides like a vise, like a squeezing snake.

Master Riddle reminded her a bit of a snake.

"Try one more time, Hermione," he pressed. "I promise it will be better."

She shook her head and tried to be stern, like an English governess who tolerated nothing less than utmost propriety. "I find that hard to believe, Master Riddle." But her voice was embarrassingly breathy.

More, he was already nudging the cig at her lips again – and although it wasn't ladylike at all, although it would cause a delicious scandal should anyone ever know of this; it _did _give her a rush to put her mouth where his had been only seconds before – and so she closed her eyes and breathed in much, much more carefully this time.

Now her lungs were expecting the burn, and thankfully, smoke did not scrape at her insides like jagged knives but swept through in a hazy caress. She exhaled.

"That's it," Master Riddle murmured and her eyes opened, meeting his. He was very close. Too close to be appropriate.

Their gazes cut like broken glass.

He pulled away the cig, but didn't remove himself, and lightly touched the much shorter roll to his lips. He inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine devour his senses and eat away the prickling in his abdomen. Watching Lord Malfoy's daughter smoke had been much more…stimulating than he'd anticipated. He blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth and the grey stream curbed Hermione barely, becoming one with the fog, hanging in the air heavy as their uneven breathing.

He passed it back. She inhaled. Let her tongue dart out against the wrapper, to try to take a secret taste of the place where Master Riddle's lips had rested so casually. She did not move away when he moved closer, although somewhere underneath the smoke and scorching dark eyes she realized how much trouble she could get in should anyone see them out here – and standing so close – without a chaperone.

Worse, they were _smoking. _

She should leave right now. Forget this ever happened. Request a new music teacher; someone decades older with a beer belly and a balding head perhaps.

Satan quenched the thought. Madame Defarge helped him to do it.

Master Riddle took another drag and passed the cig back to her, but he didn't let go this time. Not when she breathed in. Not when she breathed out.

"You smoke well, Hermione," he said while she concentrated, thin lips crooked in a smirk and black eyes glittering at her. "Do you know that you look very tempting with that cig hanging from your mouth?"

Her eyes widened and snapped to his, stunned. His voice lowered. "Or perhaps you are tormenting me so on purpose?" And Master Riddle deliberately swept the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, drawing a noise of surprise from her.

The cig fell to the ground between them, sizzling on the snow.

"Well, Hermione?" he whispered.

"I…I don't know what you mean, Master Riddle," she said in a confused tremble. "I apologize."

"You should."

She could not tell whether he was serious or not. His thumb pulled down her bottom lip, so that her mouth parted with a pop. Her heart felt very heavy. "I should like very much to demand retribution."

He was teasing her.

"And maybe I will," he said softly, his breath warm on her cheek and the scent of his aftershave strong. It made her heady. "You see, I don't like to be taunted, Hermione."

Perhaps he was not teasing.

Master Riddle glanced down and raised a brow. His thumb was still in her mouth. Hermione felt no inclination to remove it. "Your cloak has slipped, Hermione," he said.

"Oh." She reached to fix it, but then he was there, so close just his body seemed to eat up every atom of oxygen, saying _allow me _with a handsome smile_. _She froze – maybe even stopped breathing altogether – as his knuckles skimmed over her collarbones, adjusting the cloak and retying the bow perfectly. She bumped into the wall behind them. Ice seeped through her back.

And she felt trapped.

"Th-thank you, Master Riddle," she stammered. ""I, um, I have to be going now. Thank you," she repeated idiotically.

His brow furrowed. "So soon?"

"Yes. It's very cold out here, actually." She nodded jerkily. Fiddled with her gloves. Stared over his shoulder pointedly. "If you'll excuse me, Master Riddle."

"...Of course." He stepped back and air flooded her lungs now that he wasn't so close. Her legs felt like a newborn fawn's when she took the first step. "Good day, Hermione," he said politely – but he didn't look pleased.

She was already walking away though, clutching her skirts like they were lifelines and all but running past the dead hydrias in the garden. She had no idea what had just occurred. She didn't understand half the things he'd said, but they made her nervous and afraid and – strangely enough – extremely curious.

But not curious enough to stay another second.

Her bottom lip – the one he touched with his thumb – felt uncomfortably hot, as if it'd been sunburned, and she reeked of nicotine. She'd smelt aftershave when he loomed so close she could count every curving eyelash framing those intense eyes.

What she'd seen in them scared her.

But it also intrigued her, in a way she was unfamiliar with.

Before Hermione rounded the bend taking her out of the courtyard, she couldn't help but look back at Master Riddle. His head was turned toward her, but she couldn't make out his expression from such a distance. She could not tell what he was thinking... and that scared her, too.

* * *

Voldemort was pissed. And frustrated. And more pissed.

He had had the entire Malfoy Manor to himself for all of Saturday. Narcissa and Draco – the latter of whom was always breathing down his neck and following him around like a lost stray – were long gone from the grounds, leaving only the servants, Lord Malfoy's daughter, and himself there.

He had of course taken full advantage of the unwatched home and scoured each inch of it, combing every nook and cranny of the Malfoy's bedrooms, of over-furnished recreation areas and drawing rooms, casting every revealing enchantment he could think of to find the infamous Malfoy stash. What exactly was hidden there was a mystery to all but the very most renown of Dumbledore's followers – but any wizard that ever passed through Knockturn Alley knew it wasn't anything good.

It was something that could ruin Lord Malfoy forever, if evidence of its existence ever reached the public. Something that could destroy his family name.

It was something Voldemort had yet to find.

* * *

Hermione emerged from the warm bath water and accepted a towel from Bridget, drying off as her handmaid scurried around to gather beauty tonics and brushes and pins. She returned with a nightgown in hand and turned to stare at the door as Hermione tightly bound her ribs in a long swath of silk - so that they might shrink to ideal size even while she slept - and dressed in undergarments.

Bridget buttoned the back of the nightgown and sat her down on a stool, to comb her hair. Hermione hummed the song Master Riddle always played so deep into the night. It was sobering and melancholic.

Lying in bed, Hermione remembered the way he had watched her as she smoked. How strong his fingers were against her lips. How close he'd become, so fast. The improper things – for she was sure they were improper, even though she didn't really gauge his meaning – he said to her. Why did he close the distance between them? Did he want something? What? 'Retribution?' What did he mean by that anyway? He couldn't possibly think of her in…in _that _way, could he? The way she'd read about in novels forbidden to her. The way she sometimes heard the servants whisper about when she passed the kitchens.

Did she want him to?

Did she think of him like...that?

There were far more questions than there were answers.

And now, the thought of him bathed her in gooseflesh and turned her warm as melting wax inside. His eyes, his chiseled visage and high cheekbones fresh off a sculptor's wheel, could rival the _David._ And it wasn't just his beauty that made her feel so…so squeamish, so nervy. He had a shadowy way about him as well – if such a thing even existed, anyhow.

Yes. Master Riddle was shadowy. The shadows whispered through his gaze sometimes and turned his voice into a low murmur. They had flared to life in the courtyard, threatening to eclipse the sun and all shreds of sense. They made her afraid. They made her _so _curious_._

Hermione was saying her prayers when she heard it again. The music.

_It's time, _Psyche sang, jumping up and running straight for the door. Miss Pross reluctantly trudged after her.

Hermione rose from her knees and followed the sounds without hesitation now, all down the long winding hallway and up the stairs to the third floor, past the moonlit windows, through the pointed arches and carved doorways until she finally reached the music room. Her spying habits had become something akin to a ritual, as of late.

The floor was empty at this time of night, nothing but a hall of memories and forgotten rooms. Gaslights offered sight, although she could have easily lit her wand.

Why was the door cracked?

Not making a sound, she carefully put one eye up to the slat and looked in to find the room empty on the other side. But why was it empty? She frowned and entered, staring around in bewilderment. The music room was void. The piano played itself. It had been enchanted.

_It had been enchanted. _

She spun around, but it was too late, and Master Riddle shut the door to the hall outside, locking it with a tap of his ivory-colored wand on the knob. She shrieked, trying to cover herself – Lord Merlin, she was hardly dressed! – and she scampered behind the piano before he could glimpse any more of her. By some divine act of the angels, the instrument's girth proved to be an excellent divider.

"My my, what do we have here?" Master Riddle mused, fingering the wand once again tucked inside his pocket. He cocked his head. "Have I a secret _spy_?"

"I-I-I'm so sorry, Master Riddle," she babbled. "I heard you playing and couldn't help myself. I-I-I only wanted to listen, really."

He rolled his eyes at the sheer terror on her face. "Merlin, I'm not going to _Avada _you for eavesdropping, Hermione. Calm down."

He wasn't?

Oh. Of course he wasn't. She blushed, realizing how foolish she was being. Umbridge would slap her silly if she were to see her now. "Sorry," she repeated faintly.

"Yes, you said that." Master Riddle pushed himself off the door and she wondered why he'd locked it, tensing when he came over. He sat at the bench on the opposite side. "You're staring at me as if I'm a species from some uncharted planet," he commented, flexing his fingers and striking a few chords. "Penny for your thoughts, Hermione?"

_Penny for your thoughts. _That was a Muggle term, wasn't it?

"I should go," she said, although she didn't move. She couldn't possibly, not in her nightgown, not alone in a room with a young man well past midnight. This was very much against the rules.

She couldn't believe he'd found her out.

"Why is that, Hermione?" Master Riddle played Mozart, a composer he'd taught her about during their lessons thus far. He did not seem to be nearly as worried about any of this as her.

"I am, um, erm…" She blushed bright red, wondering why he was making her point out the obvious. "…indisposed, Master Riddle."

"Oh?" He glanced up, taking in the black mask and the shoulders clad in cotton nightgown before everything else vanished behind the piano. He raised a brow. "I thought you were hiding behind a baby grand."

"Master Riddle, please."

"Why can't we enjoy each other's company?" His fingers flew over the keys, sending notes ricocheting and bellowing throughout the room. How the entire manor did not wake up was a mystery to her. Perhaps he cast a Silencing Charm as well? "You enjoyed mine for a good while, if I recall correctly," Master Riddle reminded her.

Her mouth dried. "I…"

"You owe me for not turning you in." The handsome baritone could have been teasing, but it wasn't. He looked very serious, in fact, and this made her squirm in an acutely unpleasant manner. Oh no. More 'retribution.' "But I still could, come to think of it, which is why it'd be better if you stayed on my good side tonight, Hermione. Don't you think?"

"You're blackmailing me?" she said incredulously.

"Yes." The notes ran up a pitch, tapping a fluttery staccato before falling back to deeper strands of sound. "Come sit down, Hermione. You know this song by heart, don't you?" Once again, he was pointing out her bad habits, and she was shamed into coming out of hiding. She kept her arms firmly wrapped around her bosom though, as if she was less of an English witch and more a mummy, and sat down where he indicated.

Hermione stared at her exposed ankles under the piano sulkily, wishing her already-long nightgown was somehow an inch or two lengthier. The bench made the fabric ride up slightly and her hands stayed out of sight under her crossed arms. The air on her bare skin worsened her embarrassment.

"What do you always sit out there for anyway?" Master Riddle said, startling her. "Why didn't you just come inside?"

"I didn't want to disturb you." She cleared her throat. "Besides, I'm not exactly allowed out of my room after bedtime, Master Riddle."

"Bedtime?" He was amused.

She flushed.

"Well, I do implore you to come in whenever you wish. Your company is not unwelcome."

Hermione blinked. He was inviting her? And was there a hidden meaning in his words? But this should not happen ever again, no. She was only here tonight because he was making her stay.

_And he's handsome, _Psyche pointed out.

She ignored that.

"Thank you, Master Riddle," she said civilly. He nodded.

She watched him play, her eyes darting to look at the curve of his jaw or study the strange shade of his eyes every here and there when she could not help it. She realized his music was not the same as it had been when he was alone, however. It was good, but controlled. Restrained in some way.

Why did he make her stay?

Somewhere near the end of the song, Master Riddle's eyes caught hers watching, and a smirk twisted his lips. She looked away quickly, at the row of quivering black and white. He laughed softly. "What's wrong?" he said. "You can't look at me?"

She reddened. "I didn't mean to stare, Master Riddle."

"You can, if you want." He was still smirking, and it occurred to her that Master Riddle was brilliant as well as arrogant. A perilous combination, surely. "I stare at you, don't I?"

Her head whipped up and she stared at him, stunned. "You do?" she said before she could stop herself.

"Of course." She didn't know when he'd stopped playing, but he had, and his eyes now ran over her slowly. Very slowly. "You must know how very distracting you are, Hermione."

She didn't actually. All she knew was that if she spoke now, she would surely sound like a throttled toad.

"Especially now in that little nightgown." He was closer, as he had been before in the courtyard today, and her heart leapt to fill her throat. He was being horribly inappropriate. She was horribly infatuated. "I like your hair very much this way," he murmured.

"It's frizzy," she whispered.

"So?" He picked up a long lock, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger thoughtfully. She stayed motionless. "Perhaps it's supposed to be." He leaned closer, until she could smell his aftershave and his mouth just barely touched the shell of her ear. Her breath caught. "It's damp, too," he said in hot hush. "Did you take a bath?"

She nodded slightly, eyes wide.

"To get rid of the scent of cigs?" he said softly.

She bit her lip. "Yes."

"You smell like roses now." His nose skimmed her hair slightly, breathing in a bit. She stayed very still. Afraid to move. Afraid to break the spell. And all the while, her eyes stayed riveted on the locked door as if it might burst open at any moment. "Why is that?"

"Why…why is what?" she said, distracted.

"Why do you smell like roses?" He smirked. "Or is it your natural _essence?"_

"It's, um, fragrance. And rosewater."

"Where do you put it?"

She swallowed nervously. "Master Riddle?"

"The fragrance, Hermione," he elaborated in a suave voice that made her think of black night and shadows at once. She shivered. "Where do you put it when you dress?"

"Oh." She blushed the hardest yet and one of his fingers traced an electric line down her spine, making her gasp. "On my wrists and, ah, behind my neck, Master Riddle," she said in a quick mumble, although she should not have answered him at all.

She should not be here at all.

"I noticed."

"The fragrance?" she said, bewildered.

He laughed quietly. "No, Hermione. I noticed your neck."

She had no reply for that.

"You're very lovely, you know." He pulled back and she saw with surprise that his eyes were lowered, strong brows creased in sudden pain. "I hate to see you hurt and I know you said it was a private matter, but I couldn't help but hope you might let me…see them again?"

See them? See what?

Then it clicked.

"Master Riddle, please," she said desperately. "They'll only disturb you."

"They won't." And he caught her chin, shocking her into silence. His eyes were like obsidian gems. "I promise."

"I…" She bit her lip. She didn't want to annoy him by saying no, but she didn't want to scare him away either. How to choose?

"Show me, Hermione," said Master Riddle, choosing for her, imploring her with his intense eyes. So she did.

Hermione shut her eyes and slowly pulled out her hands from under her, putting them in her lap and leaving them there. They shook and trembled under Master Riddle's gaze. They were so scarred and grossly misshapen from abuse that they somewhat resembled an old woman's hands, with swollen knuckles and cowering fingers. They were ugly.

She waited for Master Riddle to make a noise of disgust, to sneer, to tell her to put them away and laugh at her.

But she should have never tried to predict him.

She opened her eyes when a pair of hands encircled hers, firm and tight and not at all like an aristocrat's hands, but rough with calluses that came from hard work. She had no time to wonder at those though, for her thoughts were occupied by shock. How could he touch her? How could he sit here, holding her hands so fast without even a _hint_ of revulsion in his eyes? How? Why?

"How did these all get here?" said Master Riddle, quite unaffectedly, and traced a pink scaly welt going from the base of her thumb to her pinky. He looked intrigued.

"My hands itch sometimes," she started, but then bit her tongue sharply, wondering why she'd said something so disgusting. He didn't seem to mind though, so she kept going. "Um, and when they do I just…scratch them."

"This hard?" He flipped her hands over and her heart flipped, too, at the prolonged contact. He touched her smooth palms. "But only on the backs," he observed.

"I usually take potions to make the scars fade," she said quietly. _Because Lord Malfoy does not approve of ugly daughters. _"But I've been forgetting lately."

"Why do you… why do they 'itch'?"

Her cheeks colored.

"I won't tell anyone, Hermione," he said lowly. "It can be our secret."

Hermione paused, staring at him. Searching for a lie in his eyes. Hoping to find the truth there instead.

But Master Riddle was an excellent deceiver.

"Sometimes I get nervous. Really nervous," she admitted at last. "It usually happens then."

"Are you nervous now?"

"Yes."

"If I let go, would you hurt yourself?"

"I don't hurt myself, Master Riddle." She frowned. "I scratch."

He raised a brow.

"Well, I wouldn't," she said finally. "This is a different kind of nervous." Her fingers flexed within his. "A…a good kind, I think."

Hermione doubted herself then. She was being entirely too bold, wasn't she?

"It is indeed," he said and she stared at him. He lifted one of her ugly hands to his lips, kissing it softly. "You'll come back tomorrow?"

She nodded slowly.

He smiled. "I look forward to it, Hermione. Goodnight." The door unlocked with a neat click behind them.

Hermione paused. Because she wasn't sure what had just happened. Because she wasn't sure whether or not she wanted to leave now. Then, she said, "Goodnight, Master Riddle," and gently pulled her hand out of his. She stood. She felt Master Riddle's eyes burning into her back until the door shut once more, separating them. Releasing her. She touched the hand he'd held so carefully.

_Yes, _Miss Pross said furiously, beside herself with disapproval and anger. _You have been entirely too bold, Ladybird._

Hermione smiled to herself. She had been, hadn't she?

* * *

**AN: The next update should be on Saturday. Psyche does implore you to review, so that she might see Master Riddle's deliciousness even sooner. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**Kisses,  
ImmortalObsession**


	6. Take A Bite

**AN: Eek, it's update day! *high-fives* OK, so this chapter is considerably longer than the earlier ones (as the rest will be) and quite…racy. So, take heed, my lovelies. Take heed. **

**On that note, quick FAQ. :) **

**A few readers were wondering whether Hermione has some sort of prophecy or super magic going on? The answer is a firm no – but I commend you for your imagination. Very creative. *applauds* Also, speculations on the Malfoys and Master Riddle are all veeery close.**

**So, **_**so**_** close.**

* * *

"_Beauty wasn't certain that she hated Lord Gregory._  
_Perhaps there was something comforting in his air of command._  
_What would it be like to be here without someone who directed her so completely?_  
_But he appeared obsessed with his duties,"_  
- Anne Rice, _The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty_

* * *

Malfoy Manor was rather empty today.

Narcissa, out with Lady Black and the other viscount wives again, was currently at her favorite saloon in Hogsmeade exchanging gossip, discussing delicious scandals, and drinking tea. Draco mostly practiced Quidditch on Sundays, so he was absent for the better half of the day as well. Hermione retired to the library for a spot of reading. She saw Jamie with her red split-ends and gap, heaving a mop and bucket down the hall. The girl waved to her, grinning, and she waved back.

At about evening, she left.

She was passing the parlor, nose buried in a nearly finished book, when the unseen occupant inside decided to make himself known at that moment.

"Oh look here! It's my little sissy," cried Draco, almost making her drop her book in fright. He snickered at her. "Clumsy thing, aren't you? Come in, sister. Sit down, sit down."

"Draco, I really have to go…"

"Bullocks. Get in here." Draco stared at her hard and his blue eyes sparked, daring her to contradict him. She didn't, folding the page she was on and meekly complying. At this, the bright smile returned to her brother's face with speed.

She smelled brandy and bourbon and cigarettes inside the parlor. A steadily-filling ashtray sat on the table, next to multiple empty bottles of liquor from their private set. Lord Malfoy would be furious, if he were to know.

"I said sit _down, _you fucking brat." Draco yanked her down beside him, tearing her sleeve and reaching forward for another glass of Firewhiskey. He slugged it down like a sailor.

Hermione watched him refill the glass again with unease prickling her conscience. "Draco, are you al-?"

"I don't know what he sees." Her brother swirled the remainder of amber whiskey, watching the liquid swish around the bottom of the cup with narrowed cold eyes. Two spots of pink high on his thin cheeks were the only apparent color he had. His hands shivered. He was drunk.

Draco licked his lips and looked at her sideways, smirking. "You're so beautiful it makes me sick."

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, trying to retain whatever composure she could hold onto given the current situation. Draco did this sometimes. Got intoxicated and made her sit through it with him. Sometimes, he babbled senselessly for hours on end, and sometimes, he was eerily silent.

Today, he seemed to favor the first.

Her brother passed out soon enough though, his head on her shoulder, snoring into her hair softly. When he slept he was almost endearing in a strange way, she thought. He looked younger. Less dangerous. Like the sleeping dragon.

Hermione took out her wand and Transfigured one of the used bottles into a blanket, Vanishing the rest and carefully laying the afghan over Draco. He huddled under it with a content sigh. She leaned in to kiss his forehead, but then changed her mind at the last moment, fearing he'd wake up and catch her.

Retrieving her book, she hummed Master Riddle's song all the way back to her room. He was in Diagon Alley today, but she would see him tonight.

If she was brave enough to go and meet him, that is.

* * *

Hermione recorded notes from the new music booklet Master Riddle had given her some days ago. This version was third level. She was excelling, and quickly at that, but Master Riddle had yet to praise her for it.

She liked that.

The bedroom door opened then, interrupting her thoughts, and Hermione peeled herself away from her work to find Bridget coming in. Her pudgy handmaid bore a wrapped parcel. Hermione beamed.

"Oh, are those more books-?" she began to say, but stopped when she saw the tag on the package. _With love, _it read. _Daddy dearest._

Oh.

"It's from Lord Malfoy, m'lady." Bridget carefully placed the present on her desk, on top of a level nine Charms textbook. "The owl dropped it off just minutes ago."

"How...kind." Hermione forced a gracious smile and nodded to her handmaid. "Thank you, Bridget."

Bridget curtsied. "M'lady." And she left, shutting the door behind her with a promise to bring dinner in another hour.

Hermione sighed, pushing away the parcel – it was only another dress or shawl or pair of shoes or something – and she turned back to her notes, ignoring her father's generous gift. Ignoring his symbols of affection.

Yes, she would most definitely be going to the music room come midnight.

* * *

Hermione stood outside of the music room. Nerves were on the summit of getting the best of her. She wore slippers. She had taken a skin-replenishing potion for her hands and while they weren't perfect, they were certainly better. She was ready. She raised her hand to knock on the door, then lowered it. She didn't hear Master Riddle playing. Did that mean the invitation had been retracted? Was their meeting off? Did he not want to see her?

But yesterday, he'd told her that he watched her. He'd let her put her lips where his had so sensuously cupped that cigarette. He kissed her bare hands…

Hermione wanted him to kiss her elsewhere.

She knocked on the door of the music room softly. Without pause, Master Riddle's voice called "Come in" through the wood.

_Now or never, _Psyche said bracingly.

She went inside.

Master Riddle, indeed, was not playing and instead he smoked a cig, gazing out the large windows at the black night through wispy rings of grey. Seeing him now, some part of her she didn't realize had gone heavy suddenly went light as whipped meringue. She wondered where he'd been and what he had been doing. Perhaps something for school? She was nervous. Had she come too early? She hoped he didn't mind.

He always made her think twice.

"Master Riddle," she greeted amiably. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you." There was some irony she didn't understand in his reply. There was a crystal ashtray on the piano top. "And you, Hermione?"

"I am well."

"Sit down," he bid, finally giving Hermione a directive she found herself relieved to hear and obey. She took her place on the bench, crossing her ankles. "I'll play something. Do you have any requests?"

"Um. What about the song you usually play? The sad one."

"This?" He played the first stanza, fingers flitting up and down the keys briefly. When she nodded, he continued. "You believe this is sad, Hermione?" he asked.

"It sounds that way," she said shyly and watched his hands race, fluid and without hesitation. _The piano is his language, his native tongue_, she thought. "It's like _Lacrimosa_."

"_Lacrimosa _is depressing. This-" The chords slammed in emphasis. "-is furious."

_Are you furious, Master Riddle? _The thought came to her mind unbidden, but it would be rude of her to ask. She wasn't half as bold to try to.

She did wonder though.

"I'm surprised you came tonight," said Master Riddle quietly.

Hermione blinked, confused. "And why is that, Master Riddle?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He smirked. "Why, there should be a fifty-something-year old woman barreled between us at this instant, monitoring our conversation and making sure my hands don't go where they shouldn't. You should be in bed dreaming of sugar plum fairies." A low chuckle. "Yet, here you are."

"Should I…should I go, Master Riddle?" she said uncertainly. The thought of leaving depressed her, although everything he said was true – and more. By all rights, she really should leave.

"Yes," he said. She deflated. "But there's a difference between what you should do and what you could do." Master Riddle ceased playing and lit a cig again. She looked on unabashedly when he released a smoky exhale that turned his eyes into thunderheads. He caught her staring.

"Will you leave now?" Master Riddle said, before she could look away.

_Yearning_. That was what the squeamish feeling boiling in her belly was. She recognized it, at last.

"Answer me," he murmured.

Her fingers flexed, locked together, the skin smoothed in a way only magic was capable of. She'd liked the way his felt clasped around them. "I don't want to go," she confessed. "I enjoy your company very much. …Too much to make myself leave, Master Riddle."

"I'm glad."

Surprised, she glanced up, meeting his eyes and losing her breath to see them. On her. Dark. Unblinking. "It will have to be our secret, you know," he said. "You couldn't tell anyone."

"I know." She bit her lip. "But... I'm not sure exactly what you mean, Master Riddle. What aren't we telling anyone exactly?"

"I'll show you." Another smoky sigh. Master Riddle faced her. "Come closer."

_Closer? _Psyche repeated, eyes wide and sugar-sweet voice breathy. _Closer for what? _

Miss Pross crossed herself.

Hermione scooted across the bench a little.

"Closer still." He blew a ring of smoke toward her, smirking, _teasing_, and it bloomed and dissolved on her eyes. Stinging them.

Hermione's face burned. She closed the last of space between them until only a sliver of air hovered between their chests – although it felt as if a deep sea stirred there. The floor sent cold shooting through her feet despite the slippers. Her eyes got caught on Master Riddle's lips. The mask itched where it rested on top of her cheeks.

She didn't even dare to breathe.

"Perfect." Master Riddle breathed in the nicotine deep, so deep she could see it swirling in his eyes like greyish watercolors and hanging off the end of his cig when he stubbed it out in the ashtray. He held the smoke inside and took her chin, not gently, killing the space between them with his whole body in the next heartbeat.

Then his lips had swooped down on hers, opening them and sending a mouthful of smoke straight to her brain. Her eyes flew open wide, but only to see the grey plumes streaming out his nostrils, seeping between the cracks of their mouths, twirling like shapeless ballerinas. Smoke was everywhere.

His lips felt both hard and soft.

Master Riddle pulled away and the smoke stuck to their mouths, writhing in the air and cloaking them in a translucent cloud. He traced her tingling lips with the thumb of the hand still holding her chin, making them tickle. "What's wrong?" he searched. "Don't you want to kiss me, Hermione?"

_Yes. Very much. _She flushed. "Sorry… It's just that I've never kissed before."

"At all?"

She was embarrassed. "No."

"We'll have to see about remedying that." Master Riddle's voice was low, whispery even. Shadows whipped through his gaze. "I'll teach you how, if you'd like." Then – before she could even recover herself – he was leaning forward, closing the space between them oh so slowly, his eyes on hers and one of his hands coming up to hold her head.

"Relax," he whispered when she stiffened. "You shouldn't be tense."

Her shoulders slumped slightly.

Master Riddle's mouth touched the corner of hers. Her eyelids fluttered when his hand started to comb through her hair gently, all the way down her back to where the thick, snarled tumbles ended at her waist. It felt good. Scary and strange, yes, but also… good.

"Just press your lips against mine, Hermione." Master Riddle stopped at the small of her back, pushing her closer to him. "Shut your eyes."

She shut them.

He closed in all around her then, consuming the senses, pulling like the spring tide, resolute as La Guillotine's blade slashing down on another unlucky head, savory as the forbidden fruit, inevitable as death…like…like nothing she'd ever felt before. Hermione moved her lips back against his tentatively and he increased pressure, tugging her hair a little. She could smell smoke and aftershave on him. He could smell roses on her.

"Do you like it?" She nodded, sighing. "Good. Now when I do this-" He nibbled her bottom lip lightly and her heart flip-flopped to have him so close, to feel him speak into her. She blushed. "-you open your mouth."

"W-why?"

"So I can feel your tongue." His own slid over her bottom lip and she gasped at the wet dab. He smirked. "Go on, Hermione."

He nibbled. Frowning, she cautiously – slowly – parted her lips. As soon as they were open enough, his tongue – moist and tasting of spearmint somehow – swept into her mouth, caressing hers and drawing an odd noise from the back of her throat. He tilted his head for a better angle and their nose mashed together, as his tongue roved over the roof of her mouth, sensual and twisting. It licked over her teeth and stroked hers firmly, making soft smacks and clacks as their lips danced. She whimpered when the foreign place between her thighs began to bleat.

Master Riddle's hands went to the back of her head as he kissed her, to the tie of the mask. He gave the strings a tug and the black lace felt loose against her face, slipping now.

"I want to see you," he breathed between touches of lips and tongue. "Has anyone ever seen you before?"

"Only my father is allowed to," Hermione said, dazed. "But you can... if you want, Master Riddle."

He pulled off the mask.

Voldemort stared. Triumph prickled his chest and his eyes were a dark victory as they took her in: the enigmatic Hermione Malfoy, revealed to him like a red rose finally bloomed. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her cheeks a delicate shade of excited pink. She was very pale. She had a heart-shaped face that came together fully without the mask hiding half of it, a spatter of freckles running across the bridge of her snub nose and thin brows, curly eyelashes.

She had never been seen by anyone beside her father, beside himself now.

She had never been kissed until him.

He found he liked to be the first to touch her, to see her like this with her unruly hair and half-dressed. Her sweetness was his privilege.

He wanted to mold her inexperience into experience.

_To kiss her more._

He opened and closed his lips over hers, listening to her little noises of surprise and pleasure as if they were songs written by Debussy. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and she cried out softly when he dragged his teeth over the pink flesh, punishing it. He moved closer, until her bosom was fluttering against his chest, her hands trapped between them on her lap and clenching her nightgown in a rigid grip. He laughed to see her so confused, so aroused, so afraid of her body's own reactions.

"I- we can't do that, Master Riddle," Hermione hurried to say, pulling back when his hands lowered to her small waist and tightened there. She glanced at the shut door, locked by magic. Separating this secret from the prying eyes of Malfoy Manor.

"Can't do what? I'm only teaching you." Master Riddle's thumbs rubbed circles into the bunched fabric of her nightgown, massaging the skin underneath. Distracting her. Her eyelids drooped when he put his mouth to her ear and skimmed it back and forth there. Persuading her to give in. To do as he desired. "Besides," he said softly, "I _want_ to touch you."

He did? Hermione blushed. "But…"

"But what?" He did something she'd never heard of then, capturing the soft flesh of her ear between his teeth and flicking his tongue over it. Her breath hitched. "We agreed to keep this a secret. No one will know, Hermione."

_Take a bite. _Satan coiled around her ankles, tightening like a boa constrictor, hissing up her thighs. _Go on, little Eve._

Master Riddle tongued her neck. A garbled plea escaped her.

Then the spidery fingers were pulling her across his lap, rubbing sweet little sounds out of her and chasing away the last of rational conscience. She didn't dare touch him, but she wriggled under his touches and ever-moving lips like a tortured ladybug. He was all over her. His fastidious attentions scared and thrilled her at once. She felt things in places she had not known were capable of sensation. She felt as if she was drowning under the demanding lips of the young man presently devouring her.

_What would Lord Malfoy say if he saw you now? _Miss Pross moaned, covering her eyes. Behind her back, Satan was filling out the miserable woman's death warrant. Madame Defarge passed him the quill and ink.

Hermione gave a start when something distracted her.

"Master Riddle?"

"Hm?" His eyes opened, rows of thick lashes slowly peeling apart to reveal pitch black irises. He looked sleepy. "What is it?"

"What's, um." She swallowed. "What is poking me?"

He frowned. "What?"

"I think there might be something in your pocket?" she suggested timidly. "It is, erm, poking me."

"My pock-" And his eyes lit with some understanding she had yet to gauge and he pressed his lips together firmly, in a valiant attempt to suppress laughter as a huge smirk twisted his expression. She slanted her eyes. Why was he laughing at her? "That is my erection, Hermione."

"Erection?"

Voldemort stared at her. She couldn't be serious. Surely, she knew what he was talking about. She said herself that she read all kinds of books. Wouldn't that include the occasional erotica? Surely it would.

But Hermione had never even been kissed before, so how could she know, really?

Carefully, he explained the term to her. Her face went beet red.

"Oh," she croaked, then cleared her throat and eased herself back to the safety of the bench. He found this hilarious, but bit back any threatening sniggers. "Um… Oh."

A rather eloquent response for a rather eloquent situation.

"I, um, you don't have, ah, those…er, things…all the time, do you, Master Riddle?" Hermione said as delicately as possible, her face red.

His amusement was evident. "No, I don't. That would probably be painful."

She nodded, but now the embarrassment had mostly faded from her cheeks. She was listening closely. She was trying to hide her interest in the rather vulgar subject.

The fascination in her eyes gave her away though.

"And how do men… get them, Master Riddle?" She whispered the next word secretively. _"Erections?"_

"From arousal. Or pleasure."

"And it…hurts?"

"They're rather uncomfortable." Here, Master Riddle smiled like the Cheshire cat. "But an erection can be alleviated through stimulation."

"Stimulation?" She glanced at the door, shut and locked, nervously. She lowered her voice even further. "Do you mean private…?"

"There are multiple ways."

"Oh. That's interesting."

He arched a brow at her choice of words. "Is it now?"

And Hermione realized what she'd said, blushing so hard she felt some of the blood trickle out of her toes and steal up to her head instead. "I apologize, Master Riddle," she said hastily. "I didn't mean to be so..."

Inappropriate. Dim. Rude. Improper. _Lewd. _

Oh, what was she doing here?

"It's quite alright, Hermione. I don't mind at all," he said, lips curling up in a mischievous grin. "It is a particularly _interesting_ subject, isn't it?"

He was making fun of her now, without a doubt, she thought sulkily. "I suppose so, Master Riddle."

"I could tell you more about it, if you'd like." His hand was on her thigh. She stared at it, not sure what to do. Should she push him away? Yes, she should. She could.

But she didn't want to at all.

"Would you like that?" breathed Master Riddle, breath warming her neck, kissing delicately and turning her skin to gooseflesh. She shivered. "Would you like me to teach you a lesson? To show you?"

_Yes, _Psyche chanted. _By the gods, a thousand times yes-_

_No, not at all_. This from Miss Pross, who was waggling her finger so sternly it might fly off at any moment. _Take your hands off Ladybird this instant!_

Madame Defarge disagreed, naturally.

Satan was smiling to himself in a rather indecipherable way.

And then Master Riddle interrupted her thoughts by taking her trembly hand and pressing it over himself. On his trousers. On his… his… Hermione couldn't even think the word.

She should have never come here.

Master Riddle should not be touching her like this.

_Improper. Scandal. Social ruin. _Doomful words from Umbridge's lessons all came swirling back to her now, through the cloudy haze that had come over Hermione. She tried to concentrate, to come back to her senses. To end this while she could.

Her lips burned from his kiss.

She was going to hell, wasn't she?

He was very large from what she could tell. And surprisingly hard.

What did he look like, she wondered…?

_Stop that, _Miss Pross growled.

She tried to. Really.

Master Riddle's breathing was heavier. The sound increased the strange burn between her thighs and she fidgeted. "Ask me, Hermione."

"I…" She stared at him, helplessly, then at the bulge her hand rested on. He wasn't holding her there anymore. But she hadn't pulled away. "I can't," she choked out.

"But you can." His lips skimmed her collarbones, his tongue deliciously following the trail they made. She was being far too permissive. She was enjoying the wetness of his mouth far too much. "You simply _shouldn't." _

He was right.

This was wrong.

She really did want to see.

No, no, she couldn't.

_Hell isn't so bad, _said Satan, conversationally. _And you'll only be in the second circle with the lustful and foolish lovers. That's a picnic compared to this ice. _

"I... I would like to see." It was just a faint whisper.

Master Riddle blew on her moistened throat lightly. "You would like to see what, Hermione?"

"I…would like…to see you... Master Riddle." Air bunched up in her bosom with those words and her eyes were huge and glossy on his and she almost took it back, but then didn't because she didn't want to. She should and she could, but she wouldn't.

Not now.

"You've never seen a cock before, have you?" Master Riddle said, bringing yet another blush to her cheeks at the crude word. She tried not to watch, but could not tear her gaze away as he unzipped the fly on his trousers. He smirked. "I'll take your silence as a no."

Her naked face was flaming. She bit her lip. Whether the gesture was done out of nervousness or curiosity, was surely a mystery to even Lord Merlin.

Master Riddle pulled his member out and her eyes widened, because whatever she'd been expecting – if she had been expecting anything at all – it hadn't been this. He was, indeed, quite large and his erection stood almost vertically, long and thick with a very pink tip and a dot of clear liquid seeping out of the slit. She glanced at the shut door, then at him, and then at him southward_. _

She was staring at a cock.

At Master Riddle's cock.

_What if Lord Malfoy finds out? _Miss Pross demanded, in one last attempt at escape. Madame Defarge stuck an apple in her mouth before she could go any farther.

Master Riddle's lips touched the corner of Hermione's jaw, curled in a smirk still and so very soft. She couldn't look away from his…instrument…for some peculiar reason. Master Riddle snickered. "I can see you're dying to ask about it," he said lowly, playing with a lock of her hair. "So go on, Lady Hermione. Ask me."

The burn between her thighs worsened.

"The, um, the anatomy," she finally got out, in a high-pitched voice that was most definitely not her own. "What is it?"

"Excellent inquiry," he approved in a feline purr. Hermione shivered at his tone, silky and shadowy, edged with amusement and something else she couldn't identify. She watched as he took hold of himself. The sight made her blush harder: masturbation was forbidden.

His hand was low. "This is the base." His hand rose slightly. "The shaft." Even higher. "Head."

Hermione tried to look knowledgeable. "Ah."

"Recite them."

She stared at her most evil music teacher, unsure if he was serious, but there was no taunt in Master Riddle's gaze now. He looked expectant if anything – just as he did during their lessons. "The…the base." She pointed with a trembly finger. "The shaft." Higher. "The head." A fast mumble.

"And a very important part of my cock," Master Riddle said, taking her limp hand and bringing it to his erection. She stopped breathing when she felt the radiating warmth of his length under her fingertips. She couldn't believe it. She was _holding _it, holding his– "-is down here." And then her hand and his hand were in his trousers, under his cock, and she was cupping something very soft that made Master Riddle grit his perfect teeth. Her eyes flew up to his face.

"Did I do something wrong?" she said anxiously.

"No." Master Riddle concentrated. "It just feels very…_fuck…_good when you-" He said another oath, eyes clenching shut. Hermione was surprised. She rarely heard men swear in her presence. "-when you touch me like that," he finished in a hoarse pant.

It did?

"What am I touching, Master Riddle?" she asked curiously. "You never said."

"My testes. But they're…sensitive, so don't grip too tight." He was grimacing. He looked extremely handsome.

She wished he would kiss her.

"What's, um, what's that?" She pointed with her unoccupied hand at the liquid that had leaked out of his tip, eyes inquisitive but embarrassed, too. Her heart pounded hard.

"Pre-cum." He had opened his eyes. "If you continue to touch me, I probably will come all over your hand, Lady Hermione."

"Oh." She remembered what he'd said, about erections and how they were uncomfortable. That they could be remedied through... stimulation. "Should I, um, assist you?" she said timidly, trying to be polite.

Not that there was room for manners in any of this.

Was there?

She was being ridiculous.

She would never show her face to high society again.

Not without blushing to death, anyhow.

"Yes." He put her hand higher, on his shaft, and she held it loosely, not sure what to do. Still utterly bewildered that she was in this situation at all. "Go up and down with your hand," he said heavily. "Firmly."

Hermione bit her lip. "Um… Yes, Master Riddle." And she guided her hand up and down his length gently, to the rim of his tip and back to the base.

When she looked back up, she saw Master Riddle's eyes were jet-black.

"When you go up," he said next, with effort, "flick your thumb over the head." She did. He exhaled shakily. "Perfect, Hermione."

She blushed.

"Go faster," he instructed. She went faster. "Twist your hand there." She twisted_._ His knuckles whitened where they gripped the bench. "Fuck, yes, _yes_." His teeth clenched and his nostrils flared, eyes narrowed into black slits. Hungry.

_Hungry_ _for_ _her_.

Master Riddle seemed to reach some kind of peak and he groaned loudly, head swinging back and hips rolling up to slide his cock in and out of the circle her fingers made. Her heart raced to see him like this. His testes slapped the side of her hand lightly.

Whitish liquid spurted out of the tip then, surprising her, and Master Riddle groaned loudly, movements stilling. More liquid came out.

He looked delectable in ecstasy. Mesmerizing even.

She pulled away when he seemed to be finished and stared at the evidence of what they'd done coated on her hand, some of it splattered on her skirt and still warm. She experimentally rubbed her thumb and finger together, watching the semen gob when she parted the digits. Master Riddle's seed was sticky.

"You look surprised, Hermione," Master Riddle said with a quiet laugh. His cock wasn't standing up anymore. She averted her eyes hastily when he saw her looking.

"Tell me," he said curiously. "Did you enjoy seeing me come?"

She nodded a little.

He smirked. "Good." His eyes strolled over her in a way she was unfamiliar with. It made her nervous. It exhilarated her. "So did I."

He stood and pulled up his trousers, zipping them. He put away his wand after cleaning her with a brief charm, tucking it in his pocket with a quick flit of fingers."I will see you at lessons tomorrow," he said. Then he tilted her chin up and leaned in close, so close she could see nothing but him and the varying shades of midnight in his eyes and the creases in his lips and carved cheekbones and the heavy scent of aftershave and nicotine. He kissed her lips. "I should also like to teach you another lesson tomorrow night, Hermione," he whispered.

It was an invitation, a threat, and a dare all wrapped into one. She was helpless to resist one of them, much less them all.

"I would, too, Master Riddle," she said, blushing.

The sun was coming up, the swell of its deep yellow globe just peering over the horizon and turning the miles of snow surrounding the manor into incandescent ice shimmers. Voldemort had done what was necessary in kissing her – but he'd done more than he meant to when she asked about his erection. The question had made him feel…certain emotions. Had made him wonder what Lady Hermione looked like unclothed.

For some reason, her utter purity called to his taint. For some reason, her ignorance of the blasphemy running all around outside her little safe haven like the Black Death, of the basic mechanics of sex, delighted him. For some reason... he couldn't stop imagining her naked. Under him. Whimpering.

But she was a Malfoy. He despised her.

He wanted to eat her inside out just as well.

* * *

"Lady Hermione, what in the name of Lord Merlin are you _doing?"_

Hermione looked up from her embroidery – which was a frightful myriad of gobbled patchwork and poor stitching, for she'd never gotten sewing quite right – to find her beady-eyed tutor giving her a glare worthy of the Devil. She blinked. "Stitching, professor?"

"Don't you get cheeky with me," Umbridge growled, straightening with a dignified huff. "You were humming again, like some sort of ditty song bird. Didn't I say that was bad for the vocal chords?"

"Oh, I apologize, professor. I didn't realize." She resumed her embroidery, praying that would be the end of Umbridge's tirade.

She shouldn't have dared to secure such great expectations.

"Very poor form, very poor form indeed," Umbridge plunged on in a great sniff. "And look at this! That's the worst stitching I've seen in ages. The patients at St. Mungo's are unfortunate souls who need something to brighten their day and be cheered up – not to receive this…this…"

"Abomination?" she supplied helpfully.

"Exactly, this abomination," the tutor fumed. "The residents at St. Mungo's may not be well, but they still have two eyes to see that hardly any work went into your embroidery, Lady Hermione. You've been daydreaming again, haven't you? And here I had thought you outgrew those childlike habits, that you were a well-bred English lady above absentmindedness and silly singing and halfhearted donations– _Lady Hermione!"_

"Hm?" She forced her eyes to abandon the tweeting robin perched on a bare tree outside the window, gaze finding purchase on a pink-faced Umbridge. She cleared her throat. "Yes, professor?"

The seething woman's eyes turned into snakelike slits. "How rude of me. I seem to have interrupted your so very important daydreams."

"I wasn't daydreaming, professor."

"Oh? Then what was the last thing I said to you, hm?"

Hermione went red.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Lady Hermione," Umbridge intoned, packing every word with all the weight she could and shaking her head in disappointment, as if it personally hurt her to see her pupil behave so poorly. Satan rolled his eyes. "Obviously, you think yourself above helping England's misfortunate. We will have to review our _rules of etiquette_-"

_Oh gods, not this dreadful nonsense again, _Psyche groaned, and even Miss Pross looked dismayed.

"-to restore to you a sense of charity and good conduct that you clearly lack, Lady Hermione," Umbridge droned on.

"Of course, professor."

Her tutor delicately perched on a pouffe, adjusted her pink beret, and nodded at Hermione to indicate that she was ready. Hermione forced back a heavy sigh and began.

"A lady should cultivate a happy temper at all times," she recited, and here Umbridge – as she'd been expecting – interjected in a twitter, "Yes, yes, banish the sorrows. Speak of pleasant subjects, such as the weather or Dumbledore's thriving regime. Spread cheer and hope with your sanguine optimism and high spirits-"

"Be both a trusting lady and trustful," she continued.

"And…?" arched Umbridge.

"And value art and good reading, as well as good expression. It is important to be educated, although this does not mean it is acceptable to brag or boast one's knowledge, which is very poor form."

"Quite poor form, indeed."

"A lady's primary focus should be to keep those around her happy."

"And never to gossip," added Umbridge ironically. "Lady Luna, the daughter of Xeniphilus Lovegood who writes that silly magazine the Quibbler (quite scandalous, I must say), is always making odd comments on others and behaves very queerly. This is probably a fault of her upbringing – but anyway, the girl is shunned by higher society, never invited for visits anywhere, to balls or even a single fundraiser. Why? Because she – _hem hem _- said things she shouldn't have. Quite simply, she gossiped!"

Their lesson went on like this for another hour. Hermione, listing every last waking detail of correct posture, gesturing, proper eye contact, cleanliness, how to behave during introductions, company, how to ascend and descend the stair when a gentleman is present; and Umbridge, making endless interjections all throughout the painful process.

When their time finally came to an end Hermione was relieved. Her very tongue seemed to have lost all sense of taste and flavor from so much babbling.

Bridget came in and dressed her for the evening, changing her into a fine lavender gown Lord Malfoy had purchased for her and painstakingly brushing her brown hair into a knot of curls at the nape of her neck. Hermione rubbed Skin-Replenishing Potion into her hands before changing her gloves. The cream stung the scars.

Eating supper alone in her room, she couldn't help thinking that if only Umbridge knew where she had been last night, all alone with a gentleman in her nightgown and letting him do things she most certainly should not have let him do and seeing things she should by no rights see even if she was married, that she would not be making a fuss over Lady Luna's less than satisfactory habits. Rather, the tutor would promptly have a stroke.

_With bonne chance, _Madame Defarge muttered.

It was six-thirty sharp when Bridget brought her to the music room, announced their presence, and bid them a good evening before taking her post outside. Hermione's heart beat fast as she took in Master Riddle, sitting at the piano as he usually did, slowly looking up to meet her gaze. He made no outward indication that anything had occurred between them last night.

Neither did she.

"How do you do, Master Riddle?" she said, sitting down on the plush armchair and letting her eyes wander over the music room. The instruments seemed to have finally arrived and presently stood around them in varying shades of gleaming brass, tinkling silver woodwinds, and delicate strings. They intimidated her.

"Well. And you, Lady Hermione?"

"I am well also. Was your time at Hogwarts pleasant?"

"Very pleasant, yes. Thank you for asking."

A beat of silence.

Master Riddle stood. He was in school uniform. He'd loosened his tie. She tried not to look at his trousers – now that she knew what was in them, they suddenly distracted her very much.

She feigned interest in a nearby clarinet.

"The instruments, as you can see, are finally at our disposal," he said, crossing the room to a tall harp and letting his fingers briefly pluck across the strings. They rang sweet, disjointed sounds throughout the room. "Take your pick, Lady Hermione. One of these is bound to suit you better than the piano did."

_Or worse, _Hermione thought rather pessimistically.

"What about the flute?" she said, standing and taking the thin chrome rod out from a case. Holes danced up both sides. "It doesn't look too threatening."

Master Riddle came to her side. She detected the scent of his aftershave, distinctly masculine and heady, when he took the flute from her. She forced herself not to move closer to him. "It isn't," he agreed, flexing his spidery fingers and arranging them over the holes in a specific manner. "Basically, all you do is blow lightly, move your fingers to make notes, and keep your back straight and arms lifted." He very gracefully showed her the position, then passed the instrument to her.

She imitated what he had shown her, raising her elbows to one side and stretching her spine. Her corset clenched around her ribs and she lost her breath for a moment before regaining it again. "Like this?"

He nodded.

"And I blow lightly," she said to herself, cautiously putting her mouth on the head joint and giving it a push of air. A horrendous squeaking blurted out of the other end of the instrument and she blushed, eyes flying to Master Riddle to see his reaction. He was expressionless, save for the unimpressed arch of one dark brow.

"Try pursing your lips," he suggested.

She did.

The flute positively screeched like a banshee.

"No, like this." And Master Riddle took her chin – just as he had last night – but now instead of putting his mouth on hers, as she secretly wanted him to do very much, he slid a thumb up to shrink her lips into an oval opening. She gazed at him in surprise. He leaned closer, and she could swear his finger stroked her mouth for a brief instant. "Now blow, Hermione," he told her in a whisper. "Softly."

A _g_ slipped out of the flute.

"Very good." He pulled back. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding gushed out of her, making the flute croak. "Make a _f_ now by putting your forefinger here and tightening your bottom lip. Head straight."

He strolled around her as they practiced, making various comments and commands. She was better at the flute than she was the piano, but still fairly terrible. She would try a new instrument tomorrow, and when they had tried them all he would decide which one had fared best. She was to take up that instrument for the remainder of their lessons.

She feared such an instrument did not exist even in the darkest recesses of the universe.

Thirty minutes later, Hermione lowered the flute, cheeks pink and sore from so much huffing and puffing. "I feel dizzy, Master Riddle," she said faintly.

"It's natural to feel that way at first." _Especially with that tight corset piercing your breasts. _The thought hadn't been intentional. Voldemort waved at a chair, looking away and wondering where the devil _that_ had come from. "Go on. Sit down," he said brusquely.

Hermione did so with relief, holding the flute loosely, her eyes on the open door and the curve of Bridget's white cap. Her gaze flitted to Master Riddle when he sat down on the piano bench – the fabric between his legs bunched and crumpled as he did it – and then to the window. The window: a safe object of focus, surely.

Safer than Master Riddle's distracting trousers, surely.

"Do you have many friends at school, Master Riddle?" she suddenly asked. "Draco – when he speaks of you, that is – says you do."

"I suppose I have as many friends as any other student." His response was modest. His dark eyes were on her and did not seem to register the question at all though, as they slipped past her neck and further down. She realized her new gown had a slightly lower neckline. She blushed. The red color seeped into the tops of her breasts.

"When should…" She faltered and glanced at the door. Bridget had not moved. "When should I come tonight, Master Riddle?" she said, so quietly he read her lips more than he heard her hushed words.

"Eleven o' clock." It was a strange look he gave her, Hermione thought. Dark and mysterious and sleepy-looking and… well, strange. Something she wasn't familiar with. Something that made her feel like a piece of ripe fruit. "If it is not too much trouble, Hermione," he said softly.

"It's not." She fiddled with the fingertips of her gloves. Fiddling was bad conduct, but she couldn't help it, especially here with Master Riddle staring at her so…strangely.

The mask felt itchy today.

She wondered what he would teach her. If he would kiss her. If he would have her touch him again.

Master Riddle was opening the piano cover, gesturing for her to come over. She shot another glance at Bridget – silly of her, really; her handmaid had no reason to be suspicious of them – and she stood, going to the bench and sitting beside him as she had when attempting to learn piano. The respectful foot of space between them now taunted her.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" Master Riddle inquired, beginning to play. There was no way Bridget could hear them converse now, not over the music. Hermione pretended to study the pleasant view outside the window.

"Yes, Master Riddle."

"Did you think of me today?"

She bit her lip. "Yes, Master Riddle."

"Often?"

"Yes… often." And she wondered if he'd thought of her, too.

"Did you think of me as you went to bed?" he murmured and she looked at him, surprised. He continued to read the music he knew by heart, but his voice lowered. "Did you think of me as you dressed this morning?"

"I…" She sounded like a frog. She cleared her throat, cheeks blistering with a fiery blush. "I might have, yes." She shouldn't have admitted it.

He laughed quietly. "And did you think of my cock_, _Hermione?"

"M-Master Riddle," she stammered, "Someone could hear-"

"I asked you a question." His eyes flashed to hers and she was stilled by the sharpness in them, by the demand, by the sheer hunger. It filled her with fear. With power.

Power felt delicious.

"Answer me, Hermione."

"I thought of your cock." The words left her lips without any conscious decision whatsoever, but this could possibly be due to the fact she was so used to obeying commands this particular one hardly registered with her. Or that she wanted to please him by doing as he said. Or that he had such a natural way of ordering her, of controlling the flutter of her heart and capturing her with those intense eyes, that it was impossible to say no to him.

Or all of it.

"And you want to touch me again, don't you?" There was a taunting, laughing smile on his lips. She flushed. "But should I let you tonight? Or should I tease you as you do me?"

The burn between her thighs was bleating now, thudding and painful and yearning. Air came to her lungs with difficulty. She thought Bridget may have tied the laces of her corset too tight.

And for an instant – no, not even an instant. It was shorter than that, and so fleeting not even beady-eyed Umbridge could have seen the event – Master Riddle's fingers left the keys and his musical voice was at her ear. Singing. Hissing. "But then again," he said, "I think something else befits our agenda tonight. Don't you agree? Don't you think you should touch my cock again, Hermione? That you should stroke me and please me?" His breath was hot. "Perhaps I could please you, if you'd like. Or are you too shy to allow me to, sweet Hermione? Is that it? Are you shy?"

"I…" She was trembling. "I don't…"

The clock tolled, marking seven-thirty.

"I suppose we'll have to wait and see then."

He pulled back and she inhaled sharply, closing her eyes as if to find self-control hiding behind the lids. Master Riddle breezed his fingers over the back of her neck as he left the music room, with a cursory wish goodnight and nod to Bridget on his way out. She, meanwhile, concentrated on not melting into a flustered puddle of English flower on the hardwood floor.

She realized something odd then, something that had never – ever – happened before.

The cotton drawers beneath her chemise were damp.

* * *

Master Riddle kissed her slowly, with control and a hand on her cheek. With his fluid tongue that went deep. With his intense eyes open. Watching and measuring and intimidating and dark like obsidian gems. With a smirk in place at first, that faded as the moonlight streaming in the window paced across the music room and his lashes flickered. He held her neck, then her shoulders, then pulled her into his lap as he had yesterday, and his hands rubbed up and down her spine, coaxing soft sounds and gasps out of her. He played her like an instrument.

She made him so very hungry.

He wiped away every doubt and second thought she had, until she did not glance at the locked door every other second and went lax in his arms. She had no idea why he held her so close, what made him want to kiss her behind closed doors long after midnight, why he humored the questions she should know the answers to and would chuckle when she hesitated.

He was popular at Hogwarts, wasn't he? He was a successful composer, a prodigy, and could surely court any lady he wished to.

But instead, he kissed her in the dark where no one could see them.

And Hermione liked it when he did.

"Y-you have an erection, Master Riddle?" she mumbled in surprise when he gave her a chance to catch her breath. He nipped the curve of her neck. Her fingers, which had found their way to the back of his head for support, caressed through his hair over and over again.

"Yes, because of you and your bloody squirming," he breathed, "Would you like to see it?"

"I, um, I suppose-"

"You suppose?" he said, snickering into her skin. "No, I think it's more than that, Hermione. You're aching to see my cock, aren't you? You could hardly take your eyes off my trousers all through lessons. I saw you watching me."

"I-I'm sorry." She's mortified. "I couldn't help it."

"I know you couldn't." His tongue swirled around her lurching pulse and she sucked in a sharp breath, keening. "You're dying to see me now, aren't you? To touch me." She nodded. "That's not enough, Hermione," he tutted, with a devilish grin. "You have to say it."

Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused. "But why?"

"Because I want you to." He pulled back. A lock of wavy hair had fallen across his forehead. She had the urge to fix it.

"Why should _I_ though?" she said curiously.

"Because I want you to please me, Hermione," he replied. "It's not a complex notion. It has no restrictions, no rules, no pesky chaperones and no requirements. All you have to do to abide by it is... to do as I say."

"Oh."

"Sometimes," he added in a soft treble, "I please you." His hand swam down her side, eliciting a shiver from her. "Or often, if you wish."

_Definitely often. _This from Psyche, who was eavesdropping again. Hermione ignored her.

"Am I the only one allowed to please you, Master Riddle?" she inquired.

Master Riddle blinked at that and his hands stilled, too, in his surprise. A flush crept up her neck. Did she say something wrong?

"I…" He did not finish.

He continued to stare at her.

She frowned. "I'm not?" And hurt snuck into those two little words, saturating and souring them. He snapped out of the daze.

"No, of course you are, Lady Hermione," he said, quick to reassure, to catch her cheek in his palm and flash a dazzling smile. It wasn't genuine, because inside, Voldemort was stirring. His ice-encrusted heart was bleeding black and disgusted by her sentiment and writhing and loath to be trapped, to be limited by anything, by any_one–_

But.

But the thought of kissing any of those other Hogwarts girls now – for they were hardly ladies, the way they giggled idiotically and threw themselves so willingly into his bed – was suddenly repulsive. Since he'd had a taste of the forbidden fruit, his appetites had… altered.

Or perhaps he was really disgusted by the thought of someone else being allowed to touch him, of kissing a tramp and having to endure their grating moans when Hermione Malfoy was so much more _delectable_ than the rest. Why was that?

_It doesn't matter._ He would eventually have to kill her, after all. She was a Malfoy.

Yes, she was a Malfoy.

"May I see you?" she whispered shyly.

He nodded. He started to undo his trousers and she watched closely, unable to help the fleet of exhilaration that zipped through her when his member sprung free. He caught her wrist before she could touch him and she met his eyes, startled.

"What is it?"

"I want you to put your mouth on me this time." His lips were on her ear. Her tongue dried. He wanted her to…to do what? "I want you to suck my cock and swallow my come, Hermione," he whispered. "And I want you to be on your knees when you do it."

She went red and stared at his stiff member, thick and long with a dot of pre-cum leaking out of the slit. _What? _And how was she going to fit him in her mouth? _I want you to please me, Hermione, _he'd said to her. He wanted her – specifically, _her_ – to bring him pleasure.

He wasn't asking either.

"I…I'll try to," she finally said.

"And I will watch you do it," he breathed, releasing her hand. "I'll tell you what to do, Hermione. Kneel on the floor."

She did, in front of the piano bench he sat on and tucking her nightgown under her knees to cushion the cold ground. His elbows rested on the shut lid of the piano and he gazed down at her, smirking when she blushed to be eyelevel with his erect cock. "Intimidated?"

"Yes," she admitted. She raised herself slightly and scooted closer, carefully putting her arms on his thighs and darting another glance at him. He met her eyes, waiting. She looked back to his member and gingerly put a hand around the base, resulting in a twitch from it. Fascinated, she squeezed a little, and he twitched again.

"Fuck, Hermione," Master Riddle hissed above her. His eyes were slits. "Stop teasing me."

She flushed. "Sorry. It's just…interesting." And she traced her finger up the shaft, along a vein. A growl shuddered in Master Riddle's throat.

"Bloody– _fuck, _do that again," he panted. She did, dancing her nail up the vein gently, watching his mouth contort and snarl all the while.

"Kiss the head," he ground out.

It was a command. A command was something she was familiar with. She raised herself more, increasing the pressure on his thighs with her elbows, keeping a light hold on his shaft as she kissed the tip. Pre-cum came away on her upper lip and she touched it with her tongue curiously. It tasted salty. _He _tasted salty.

"Perfect, Hermione." He was combing his fingers through her hair. She smiled, ridiculously pleased with herself. "Now wrap your lips around me…yes, that's…and move your tongue…_fuck…_and suck. Harder. No teeth. And just go up and down…yes…"

The flat of her tongue rubbed the underside of his shaft and he snarled. He had always been disgusted by the idea of letting someone put their mouth and saliva all over him, but seeing Hermione, so modest and shy in her high-necked dresses and long sleeves, sucking his cock into her pert mouth with that small crease of concentration fixed between her brows made him think he might never let her stop.

Hermione listened to Master Riddle's words attentively, determined to get this right. She was awful at music lessons, but this instruction was different, _this_ she seemed to be good at. Ironically enough.

Master Riddle's cock was warm and thick in her mouth, resting on her tongue, the tip nudging the beginning of her throat. He told her to go deeper. She breathed through her nose and did, although tears stung her eyes and she started to choke on his length, but he was praising her and raking his fingers through her hair and rolling his hips and cursing and saying her name and telling her she looked utterly ravishing with his cock between her lips, so how could she pull up? How could she when Satan was holding her there, urging her on? When Psyche was dancing with the maenads, cheeks flushed and violet eyes beautifully wild? When a dark part of her _wanted _to choke on him, to damn all the rules to hell and eat him up?

She wanted to break the rules.

"Yes, yes, Hermione," Master Riddle groaned, and his member pulsated halfway down her throat, twitching and shuddering as her muscles convulsed around and took down his release. She pulled away, but with heavy-lidded eyes, Master Riddle told her to kiss his cock again, to clean him with her tongue, so she did, supporting the limp member with her hand and catching any residue seed. He slammed the piano lid with his fist hard when she flicked her tongue over his slit and she let go, startled.

His gaze was ten shades blacker. Rippling and radiating. _Dangerous, _Miss Pross whispered. Hermione shivered in agreement.

"Do you like the taste of me?" Master Riddle demanded quietly.

She nodded.

"Say it, Hermione. I'd like to hear you."

"I like the taste of you, Master Riddle." When he arched a brow, she said in a whisper, cheeks pinkening, "I like the taste of your come."

"I know you do." He rubbed his thumb over her lips and smirked. "Your mouth is swollen from sucking me so hard. What would your mother say, I wonder?"

"She wouldn't notice," she blurted. At his inquisitive look, she hurried to say, "Lady Malfoy and I do not…often associate."

"Oh?" That was odd, although not unheard of in Pureblood families, where governesses and maids raised children rather than mothers. He wouldn't have even given it a second thought if not for the fact she called her mother by her title, _Lady Malfoy_ _and I _– it was hardly endearing. Then again, he didn't remember Narcissa and Hermione ever speaking, or acknowledging the other's presence at all. Very odd. He would have to investigate later.

"Well, you did wonderfully," he said, and a pleased smile curved Hermione's lips, red and quite pouty from her ministrations. Compliments seemed to prove a successful distraction for her. He would remember it. "Would you zip me up?"

"Oh, of course." She carefully tucked him back in his trousers and did the fly, her eyes flitting back to him frequently. He found she was a little endearing.

Just a little.

"Is there anything else you would have me do, Master Riddle?" she said. She felt almost eager to learn more about this new world of men and desire and pleasures.

"No." She deflated. "However, I would like to…reward you for your successful instruction," Master Riddle said, eying her, and her face suffused into redness immediately. "Come up here."

Heart pounding, she joined him on the bench with sudden caution, skittishness in her wary movements. He reached for the collar of her nightgown and played with the strings, slowly pulling one side until it started to unravel from the neckline. She remained motionless.

"You have a lovely shape, Hermione," he murmured, "I've wondered what you would look like without one of your frilly dresses on more than once. How your breasts might look." She gasped when his fingers swept the tops of her bosom. The burn between her thighs was thrumming.

"How soft they might be." He reached up and pulled down her loosened collar, revealing her pale skin inch by inch.

"You're wrapped up like a Christmas present, aren't you?" The top of her nightgown now pooled around her elbows. He started to pull at her slip, smirking.

"I wonder if I shall ever see you, or die trying to get through so many layers of undergarments."

He bit her collarbone lightly. "But perhaps there's a reason you're bound so tight – so that men like me can't sneak our way under your dresses."

"Master Riddle." She didn't know why she said his name. It had escaped, like a natural bodily function, a spell of air, a whisper. He threw the discarded slip to the floor. The silk binding her ribs collapsed into a puddle on her lap without the extra adhesive.

"Perfect." His hands travelled across her bare breasts uninhibited, tugging at her hardened nipples and pushing her back until she lay on the bench. She fought the urge to cover herself when Master Riddle pulled back and assessed her.

But then he was coming over her, somehow managing to balance them on the thin strip as he closed his lips over one of her peaks and she jerked, surprised by the shock of pleasure that jolted through her, going right to the foreign burn and flaring hot. The sensations intensified when he started to swirl his tongue and flick her nipple and use his teeth. She cried out when he bit harder.

"You like that, don't you?" he chuckled and licked a path to her other breast, doing the same to it as he had the other, which was now massaged and twisted this way and that by his fingers. She moaned and said his name again, irrationally, repeating it in a breathless keening.

He picked her up, meeting her mouth with his in a rough kiss, crushing her against him as they stood in the middle of the floor, the rest of her nightgown falling at their feet, his hand sneaking into the last scrap of clothing and stroking a single finger down _there. _She let out a hoarse shriek, which turned into a long, buzzing moan as he rubbed it back and forth between her damp folds.

"You're so wet for me," he growled, one hand on her back, encouraging her to arch her breasts against him, to lose all traces of composure and integrated manner. His mouth attacked her neck.

"Positively dripping," he said between bites and kisses and her moans. "You're dying for me, aren't you? Tell me you are, Hermione."

"I'm dying for you," she gasped. She clutched his shoulders, writhing when he slowly dipped a finger into her entrance. It felt strange there and good and painful and utterly delicious all at once.

"You're very tight, Hermione." Master Riddle was pushing her into the wall with his body, now rhythmically guiding the digit in and out of her. She whimpered. "So tight," he murmured in her ear and she clawed at him, trying to bring him closer. Clenching around his finger like she was trying to suck it in. "I'll have to fix that, won't I? To keep working your sweet little cunt with my fingers until you come again and again, so that I can fit my cock inside you. Would you like that? Would you like me to be the one to take you?"

_Naked_. She realized she was naked and cornered against the wall by Master Riddle's body and his finger was inside her and another was joining it and it hurt and she loved it and he was saying terrible, terrible things to her that were making her so very wet and she loved them, loved this, and she couldn't draw breath to answer, for there was a pressure building in her, an approach to something she had never felt before, to something terrible, to something wonderful, to _something- _

"You'd better, Hermione, because I _am _going to take you," Master Riddle hissed. He twisted his fingers expertly and she arched, eyes rolling back as an orgasm exploded through her. "And when I do I'll take you again and again, wherever I want, and as many times as I should like. Do you know why? Do you?"

"N-n-no, M-Master R-"

"Because you're _mine_," he snarled. "I own you, Lady Hermione. I own every inch of your body. I own your thoughts. I own your very soul, because you've sold it to me by coming here." And she came again, with a sharp cry. He added another finger. She clenched her teeth and locked her knees around his hips, shaking her head back and forth to indicate that it hurt, it _hurt –_ but then it hurt no longer and she was pleading for him to go faster, chanting his name, mewling like a beaten animal.

"Lady Hermione." His voice was soft. "Who do you belong to, Hermione? Tell me."

"You, Master Riddle." She stared at him through tousled frizzy hair, with flushed cheeks and electric eyes. "I belong to you."

"And why is that?" He placed a haywire curl behind her ear, rubbing his smooth cheek against hers, moving his three fingers in and out of her slowly now, and she breathed heavily on his neck, eyes squeezed shut, feeling this and nothing other than this.

"Because you own me, Master Riddle. All of me," she said, trembling.

"Correct." He watched her climax, with a deep shudder and harsh bite of her lip, and he rotated his fingers inside her once more before extracting them. He licked one moist digit, than held the other two toward her. "Have a taste, Hermione. You're quite delicious."

She stared at him, stunned. And then all of his weight was on her, squeezing the breath out of her, threatening to imprint her back on the rose print, and he'd opened her jaw with one hand, sweeping the fingers of the other over her tongue. "_Taste it," _he said, and she did, sucking frantically, blushing to taste her own release and see Master Riddle's snarl be replaced by a lazy smile.

It was heart wracking.

It was…wonderful.

They stood there for another countless number of minutes, catching their breath.

"We have to go back," Master Riddle said eventually, moving across the room to gather her clothes. When he turned back, she had crossed her arms over herself in a vain attempt to hide her nakedness and was staring at the floor.

"Thank you, Master Riddle," she mumbled when he brought her her nightgown, reaching for it – but he pulled back.

"I'll dress you." She blinked at him. "I'd like to," he explained, a wicked grin taking shape on those sinfully lovely lips. "From now on when we are together I will dress you, Hermione."

"I…" She stared at his smile, a little lost, and flushed. "Yes, Master Riddle."

"I adore hearing you say that," he commented, and she looked pleased. "So what goes first? The slip or…this silk contraption?"

"The, ah, silk contraption." She stifled laughter when he stared at it quizzically, then experimentally held it up to her shoulder. It fell. "Shall I show you the proper technique?" she suggested.

He frowned at the silk, then her. "Please do."

She took one end from him, holding it to her ribs and gesturing for him to wrap it around her sides. "Continue that until it runs out, please," she said.

He nodded. She rested her hands on his shoulders to avoid falling over, and as he wrapped her, he murmured, "Should I tie it tightly?"

"Yes." Hermione sucked in a breath when he finished the silk wrap, indeed, very tightly. He looked at her quickly.

"Does it hurt?" And he was tugging at the flimsy material, yanking and accidentally pinching her and muttering profanities and not thinking at all that she was a Malfoy and that he most certainly should not care whether or not she was uncomfortable, only that she was his and he had to ensure her well-being-

"No, no, Master Riddle," Hermione exclaimed. "It's fine, it's fine."

He stopped. "You're sure?"

"Yes." She pointed behind him. "The slip, if you please?"

When she was finally redressed Master Riddle ran his hands over her, checking for error in a fashion that reminded her fondly of Bridget. It made her decide she enjoyed being 'his' very much. So she did something daring then, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek when he brought them to the door.

"Goodnight, Master Riddle," said Hermione, still smiling like a fool even as she stepped back to an appropriate distance. His hand stilled on the doorknob and he stared at her for a moment, lace mask and crooked grin and all.

"Lady Hermione," he finally murmured.

And they parted ways.

* * *

**AN: I **_**said**_** the lemons were graphic, didn't I? *Satan goes and checks; Satan confirms* See? I said so. **

**I think they should make a movie called **_**the Perks of Being Tom Riddle. **_**Featuring Emma Watson and Christian Coulson as leads, of course. I mean. Imagine the possibilities… *sigh* **

**If you're looking for a new fic to curb those Tomione feels, I've posted a new TRHG story called _Broken Hearts on Canvas _that I'd looove for you fabulous gals to check out. *puppy dog eyes* Anywho, thanks for reading and please review to tell me what you think! (And make sure you don't trust Master Riddle too much, kay? He's sneaky.) **

**Kisses,  
QueenoftheBitches – er, I mean**_** ImmortalObsession **_


	7. Their Secret

**AN: Hi guys! Thank you all for the reviews; they were most fabultastic. I noticed that there's some Draco-sympathy going around? *awww, poor Dracykins* And if any of you have doubts about Hermione's character... trust me, everything's going to work out. It's all under control. Right, Satan? *Satan ignores and pointedly continues sharpening pitch forks in the background* **

**Excusez-moi. ****I'm going to go whip me some Devil ass. **

**P.S. Warnings for lemons! **

* * *

"_You're still nothing to me._  
_And this is nothing to me_  
_And you don't know what you've done,_  
_But I'll give you a clue"_  
– Muse, _Uno_

* * *

Lady Hermione was in a wonderful mood the following day. She beamed at the servants when they bowed and curtsied, daydreaming with a little crooked smile on her face all through Umbridge's lessons (much to her tutor's annoyance) and sending Bridget to Hogsmeade on a visit to the owlery where her handmaid's beau Jimmy worked. She even saved red-haired Jamie from bathroom duties and employed her to be her escort for the day, humming as she walked the aisles of the library with the little chatterbox by her side.

Hermione was in the middle of reading _Great Expectations _to Jamie, who frequently asked after the definitions of higher vocabulary, when a servant scurried in headed straight for them. She stealthily slipped out her vinewood wand and tapped the cover of the Dickens novel, Transfiguring it into _The Great Heights of Merlin. _

"Excuse me, Lady Hermione," said the servant, with a jaunty bow. "I apologize for interrupting, but your presence has been requested in the parlor."

"Oh?" she said, surprised. "By whom?"

"Master Draco and Lady Malfoy, my lady."

_That's odd, _Miss Pross muttered suspiciously. _What could they want with Ladybird?_

"Thank you," Hermione said, rising to a stand and instructing Jamie to take the book to her chambers. "If you would be so kind to escort me…" she trailed.

The servant nodded. "Of course, my lady. Right this way."

As he led them through the twisting halls and whimsical bends of the manor, she tugged on the tips of her gloves nervously, resisting the urge to do away with them and scratch her hands. They had healed to a healthy color of pink, almost completely unblemished save for the scars that would never fade more than they already had. She didn't want her efforts to go wasted. She didn't want Master Riddle to see her broken.

"Here you are, Lady Hermione."

Drawn out of her thoughts, she looked up, surprised to find they had arrived already. The servant held open the door to the parlor, waiting, and inside her mother and brother could be seen conversing over tea. She entered and sat down on the loveseat, wondering what all of this was about.

Lord Malfoy's chair remained empty.

"Ah, the princess has finally arrived," Draco said, breaking away from Narcissa – who was coddling him again – and turning to her with a cocky smirk.

"Hello Draco," she said politely. "Good evening, mother." But Narcissa did not look at her, her long graceful neck arched in the opposite direction as she found interest in the rain dribbling through the snowy grounds outside. She held herself erect in a position of grace and poise, the refined features of her aristocratic composition lovely and gentle-looking. A slight scowl, however, turned her rosy mouth.

Hermione contained her hurt well.

Draco's smirk widened.

"Yes, well, we called you here because something has come in the mail for you from father," her brother continued, with some amusement she didn't understand lacing his tone. He picked up a package that had been resting on the mahogany end table beside him, balancing it on his knee.

"Let's see what it says here," he said and peered at the tag intently.

But she knew he'd already read it.

"Ah, isn't that sweet?" he laughed. "_With love, daddy dearest."_

She forced a smile. For the first time all day, it felt tight. "It is very kind," she agreed.

"Isn't it?" Draco carefully snipped off the tag with his wand and held it over a waxy red candle by his side, watching the orange flame lick the parchment and devour it with glacial blue eyes. Narcissa continued to gaze out the windows obliviously. "Very kind of him."

"Draco." She fidgeted. "Please…please stop that."

"Of course." And he dropped the tag directly into the flames. Her stomach gave a sharp twist when it curdled into a burned, charred thing. "Now why don't you open your present, sister?" her brother said brightly. "It is a very generous gift from father, one I am sure you'll simply adore_._"

She swallowed. "You opened it, Draco?"

And now her brother's eyes were staring into hers, cold and hard and shivering hatred, so much like their father's that she shuddered to see them. "Open it," he repeated slowly.

She reached for the box, nearly dropping it twice because her hands shook so, and gave the royal blue ribbons a light tug. They had been retied by an inexpert hand. She lifted the lid slowly.

Horror made the skin on the back of her hands burn like fire.

"What did you do?" she whispered. She took out the fine powder-blue ball gown gingerly, long and flowing with crisp sleeves that started below the shoulders and a bell-shaped skirt. It barely held together now. Someone had mercilessly ripped, shredded, and mutilated her gift.

She couldn't help but feel that Draco might have imagined her in this very dress as he destroyed it.

"Contain yourself, Hermione. I only had a peek," Draco said, waving away her astonishment nonchalantly. "Off with you now. Go brush your hair or crochet blankets for the poor or something."

She could not find it in herself to reply. Her throat was swollen with too many emotions to count, so many she could hardly choke out an _excuse me _and escape in time for the tears to burst out of her in the safety of the hall outside. The path to her bedroom passed in a blur, for she was aware of nothing but the tattered dress clutched in her hands, the painful heartbeats straining against a corset tied too tight, strangling her and hating her just as _they_ did.

She finally made it to her chambers, dismissing Jamie who scampered out in an instant at the sight of her and collapsing against the door once it swung shut. Stars danced like shimmery snowflakes across the room, following her even when she closed her eyes, whistling through her ears in a thin floss of high-pitched sound, so high-pitched her jaw clenched and went taut against it.

_White noise._ The white noise was back and consuming, terrifying. _Laughing_ at her.

_Contain yourself, Hermione._

Perspiration soaked through her camisole and corset, soiling the nape of her neck, wetting the hair already frizzing around her ears. She stumbled to the vanity and yanked open a drawer too hard, sending it and all its girlish contents screaming all over the floor. A three hundred Galleon bottle of perfume exploded in a fit of glass and sickeningly sweet fumes. She kicked the shards aside.

_Such a pretty dress, _Psyche sighed. _Put it away somewhere safe. Such a pretty dress shouldn't go to waste._

"I know," she said, flipping over the drawer to empty the rest of it. A black diary tumbled out, but she didn't pay attention to it, folding her ruined dress and tucking it in the drawer before sliding it back into place. The thing nearly came right off again due to the sheer volume of the dress, but she forced it into place, quickly cramming the lace and silk that squelched out the sides like couture vomit back inside.

_Throw him under La Guillotine, _Madame Defarge growled. _Counting heads. Off goes one, then two, and his makes three knitted boots-_

_How could a brother be so unkind? _wailed Miss Pross, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. _What sort of brother would do such a thing to Ladybird? How? Why?_

It was too hot, stuffy even. Hermione took off the mask and threw it aside, sinking onto her bed with relief. She had to keep the gloves on, although her skin itched horribly under them. She had to. She had a reason for it. She'd forgotten what the reason was, but it was very important. Important that she _not _scratch-

_Scratching will get rid of all that white noise whirring through your ickle head, _said Satan. He'd transformed into a serpent again and he slithered under the sleeves of her gown. She shrieked, slapping the thick coil slinking through the fabric and missing. _Take them off, _he hissed._ The reason can't be so important if you don't even remember what it is. _

"It is." Her eyes landed on the diary and something pricked her subconscious, too vague to be identified. "I know it is."

_It's not._

"It is."

_Is not._

"Is too." She got to her feet and glass split and crunched under the heels of her slippers. "Why isn't it wet?" she asked herself, kneeling outside of the rim of jagged bottle pieces and touching the dry diary. "It's in a puddle. It should be wet."

But it wasn't.

_Who cares? _Satan snapped. _Take the gloves off or so help me I'll do it myself-_

_It's from Master Riddle, _Psyche reminded her. _Or at least, Bridget said so, but when you asked he said he didn't know anything about a diary…_

_Maybe he lied, _Madame Defarge said.

_He wouldn't lie to Ladybird. _Miss Pross did not usually come to Master Riddle's defense, but a disagreement with Madame Defarge was not to be trifled with. _Ladybird trusts him. The diary is made of magical properties._

_Everyone is a liar. _Satan had finally wheedled off his earlier rant. He eyed the diary, too. _Open it._

"Sure, but there's not much there," she said. Nonetheless, she flipped open the diary's pages, not surprised to find them empty save for the ones she'd used to practice writing music notes. They did not fill otherwise, unless Master Riddle played the piano.

_Write in it. _

"Write what?" Hermione looked at the desk across the room, at the inkwell and quills on it. "What could I possibly have to say?"

_Everything, _they all replied.

There was a knock on the door. "M'lady?" a familiar voice called out. "It's Bridget. I've come back from Hogsmeade and I have supper ready for you."

Bridget.

"Perhaps another time." She shut the diary and took out her wand, sending it back into the vanity along with all of the other items that had spilled, clearing them from the floor in a swish and Summoning the mask, Vanishing the remnants of the perfume bottle, then the puddle on the floor. She checked once more for any damages.

"M'lady?" Bridget shouted, sounding nervous.

"Come in, Bridget."

The handmaid burst in, a steaming tray in hand, her white cap threatening to pop off her head. She blinked at the sight of Lady Hermione's wide innocent smile, skewered off to one side and blaring white.

"Good evening, m'lady." She set down supper and dropped into a curtsy. Hermione sat at the table. "I have news," she said, "that Master Riddle is in Diagon Alley on business and will be unable to return in time for your lessons tonight. He is very sorry for any inconvenience."

"That is a shame." Hermione cut a filet of lamb delicately. "Thank you for notifying me, Bridget."

The handmaid nodded. "I will return to prepare you for bed at eight o' clock, m'lady."

Hermione flashed her handmaid another crooked smile. "As you always do?"

Bridget flushed and curtsied again. "Yes. Good evening, m'lady."

"Good evening."

The door shut with Bridget's leave and Hermione gave her still-drawn wand a flick, locking it. She stared down at her lamb filet, wondering how it had gotten there.

She would not see Master Riddle tonight.

The thought depressed her.

* * *

_Knockturn Alley_  
_that night_

Voldemort strolled through the slummy streets of Knockturn Alley, yew wand out, stance casual as he wound from block to block.

Prostitutes in vividly colored make-up ran long nails down his back and whispered their invitations as he walked by, and a man in patched robes on the corner offered him some photographs he wouldn't forget at the best price in all of England. A disabled beggar he saw swaggering out of the bar an hour ago presently made a show of pathetically nibbling a piece of bread off the street so that the nearby whore house would see and throw some Sickles his way out of pity.

It was the usual grind of Knockturn Alley, all in all, although by day prostitutes usually stayed to the alleys where they wouldn't run into one of the officials, and now hundreds of them littered the sidewalks. Voldemort caught a glimpse of Lord Black stumbling out of Bellinis with more than one hooker on his arm, laughing too loudly and obviously intoxicated.

_Disgusting._ He scowled and kept going, down to the quieter corners of Knockturn Alley where the infamous wandmaker Gregorovitch was known to keep a quaint shop. He hardly received any customers, for his bad reputation with Dumbledore preceded him. He was a black mark on the peace, the Golden Age of the English wizards, and nothing but an old name. Some said Grindelwald had once stolen from Gregorovitch in Germany and that because of this, he joined forces with Dumbledore against the notorious wizard.

But that was before Dumbledore went dark.

Gregorovitch had stuck to the Light side with vicious tenacity, however, and though Dumbledore could have had him executed with all the other rebels who resisted his new ascent to power, he did not consider Gregorovitch threatening enough to be a potential problem. So he cast him off to the deepest pits of Knockturn Alley, and Gregorovitch was ruined, scraping together whatever money he could make off his shop to carry on from day-to-day.

Dumbledore's followers sometimes stopped in to torture the poor man with insults and flaunt their wealth. Voldemort had seen it himself.

But it was a grave mistake to make an enemy of someone so clever, of someone once so powerful and now spiteful enough to fuel a furnace with their fury. They underestimated him and Voldemort understood that. He would show Gregorovitch that he understood, that he felt how he did – bitter and trapped – but that there was a new power underway.

This power would yank out Dumbledore's throne right from under him. For a resistance had formed.

And Voldemort was leading it.

* * *

He returned to Malfoy Manor exactly at eleven o'clock.

It was freezing cold out in the countryside where there were no buildings to block the frigid winds or factories firing coal to warm the smoggy sky. Voldemort stole inside quickly, letting the butler – his name was Thomas, _naturally – _take his cloak and declining an offer to be escorted to his room.

He was still wearing his school uniform under his robes, the latter of which he did away with at a brief stop in his temporary chambers. He went up to the third floor then, to the music room where Hermione would eventually come and meet him. If she was not there already.

He found himself running a checking hand through his dark hair.

Voldemort unlocked the door and cast the usual Silencing Charm, carefully crafted so that any sound emitting from inside the room would be heard by no other ears than Hermione Malfoy's.

Malfoy.

Why did she have to be a Malfoy?

_It doesn't matter. _He sat at the piano and tried to play, but the music sounded wrong. Forced. _Why did I tell her she was mine? _He shouldn't have done that. It was foolish. Or it was a very clever move on his part that would inevitably bring her closer to him and more willing to tell him all the information about her family he could ever want to know.

Except he'd meant it.

Worse, he had liked hearing her say _I belong to you, Master Riddle. _He had liked it far too much.

_It doesn't matter, because I am going to kill her just as her grandfather killed my mother. _

Abraxas Malfoy _raped _his mother and _stole _his family from him – so in a way, she had, too. They all had and he deserved to murder them. He deserved his justice. He deserved to close his hands around Hermione Malfoy's slim throat, to see the veins thinly covered by milky skin lurch and struggle under his unrelenting grip, to see her brown eyes go wide with horror, with betrayal, and her wild curly hair – loose as it was when she wore her nightgown – go this way and that as he throttled the very last rosy blush out of her, to see her breasts strain against her dress as she fought and to feel her nails claw at him. And maybe he would kiss away her tears while she died, maybe he'd tell her it was nothing personal, that he did want her, but that the wounds ran too deep to be taken away with soft whispers and loving touches.

She would be beautiful when he killed her.

The clock tolled. It was one o'clock in the morning and pitch-black beyond the window. He'd sat here for two hours and the girl was nowhere in sight. He frowned. Did she purposely not come? Did she think she could just _not _show up? He couldn't have her thinking that. No, it was necessary she know exactly who was in control here and what was expected of her as a result.

Voldemort did not wait for anyone.

* * *

Hermione woke to a knock on the door. The sound was sharp and impatient, and through her sleepy daze she wondered if the person knocking had been standing there knocking away for quite some time. She stretched and glanced at the drawn curtains – but there was no morning sunlight glowing through the heavy sheers. What time was it?

_Don't know, but you'd better answer the door fast, Ladybird, _Miss Pross twittered, and Psyche agreed, saying _Find out what's going on. _

"Bridget?" she called. "What are you doing here so early?"

Bridget didn't answer, but continued to knock frantically, and she sighed, finding her wand somehow in the darkness and lighting the gaslights with a whispered spell. "Give me a moment, please," she said, fixing her rumpled nightgown and abandoning her search for the mask when the knocking did not cease.

"I'm coming, Bridget!" she exclaimed. "For Lord Merlin's sake, calm-"

Master Riddle stood on the other side of the door when she opened it. He looked livid.

"-down," she finished faintly. She glanced up and down the hall, not sure whether he was a figment of her imagination or really there, but the mystery was solved when Master Riddle grabbed her and stepped inside, – the first man ever to enter her room besides Lord Malfoy, some stupid part of her dimly realized – kicking the door shut with his foot. His wand was not drawn, but the bolts of the lock clicked shut behind him.

Her heart pounded like a war drum in the tense silence.

"Good… good morning, Master Riddle," she said, finally finding her voice. "Did you need something?"

"I did," he said softly – too softly. He seemed to far surpass the childish temper tantrums Draco frequently threw, and instead he was a scary calm. The quiet, deceptive calm before a thunderstorm made its strike.

She licked her dry lips. "And what was that, Master Riddle?"

"You." He stepped closer. He slid his free hand, the one not clenching her chin in a death grip, down her spine so sensually she felt liquid desire coil between her thighs at once. "I was there in the music room, you know, for two hours waiting for you to show," he said casually. "But you didn't show, now did you?"

She paled.

"I asked you a question, Hermione." His eyes were hard and inescapable. And although there was a terrible fear festering inside her, there was also a squirming in her belly and a heat pooling down below. She bit her lip. "_Answer me," _he hissed.

"No, I-I didn't show," she said, frightened. He smiled slightly.

"I know you didn't," he said, voice soft and gentle again. It scared her. _He _scared her. "But I do not know why you failed to come. I thought we had reached an agreement. I thought you understood that you were mine."

"I do," she protested. "It's just that I assumed you wouldn't come since you were unable to have lessons-"

"You do not_ assume_, Hermione," he spat, silencing her. "Not without my consent. Not without asking me. I own you, remember? Or did you _assume_ otherwise? Perhaps you thought it'd be amusing to let me wait around for you all night?"

"Of course not." And she scrambled for the right words to say, for something to calm this new terrifying Master Riddle – but she couldn't think of anything good enough, except for, "I'm sorry."

He raised a brow.

"I'm sorry, Master Riddle," she repeated. "None of that was my intention. I just… I thought…" She pressed her lips together, upset, and he could see she was twisting her bare hands agitatedly, her clean, buffed nails already starting to scratch off skin and leave raw flesh behind them. He caught her wrists, holding them far apart.

"I thought you said you didn't hurt yourself," he said sharply.

She blinked, then stared at the hands he restrained, as if their twitching and neat little scars was something she'd never witnessed before. "I…" But she was at a loss for words. What could she say? _You made me do it?_ But he didn't. Except he did.

He didn't.

He did.

"Hermione, Hermione." Master Riddle was whispering her name, pulling her into him, combing his fingers through her hair and rocking them in place. The rift between them had dissipated. "How could I ever hurt you?" he murmured, but this made no sense to her and so she didn't answer, afraid to break the spell. Afraid of him. Afraid of herself even more.

Minutes passed. She rested her head on his chest. He felt firm and his heart beat against her ear solidly, thudding.

It was a strangely reassuring sound.

"Are you still angry, Master Riddle?" she eventually asked, breaking the content quiet.

"No." He sighed. "Your charms prove too strong for me this time around..." She could sense him smirking. "Little temptress."

Psyche cheered at the victory of being called a temptress.

"Oh, good." She burrowed into him more and his cheek moved to her head, a warm weight on it. "You scared me," she said quietly.

"I meant to."

"Are you going to leave?" she said. "Or stay?"

"To stay, I think." He pulled back, lifting her chin with a finger and meeting her eyes. "I want to take you, Hermione."

She blinked. "I…"

"I am going to." He kissed her lips. "And it will hurt at first." He kissed her again. "But it will feel good after."

Nervousness bubbled in her – but it wasn't the usual kind. She stared at one of the lit gas lamps mounted on the wall, trying to diffuse the feeling, and the glaring light blinded her until she had to look away again. "Do you promise?" she said seriously.

Master Riddle waited until she looked him in the eye again, in his dark, black eyes that seemed deeper than the night at times. He held her in his hands firmly, just as he had in their first lesson – like it did not even occur to him that she might be fragile as glass or more breakable than porcelain.

Perhaps he saw her as more than that.

Perhaps he just didn't care.

"I do," he said.

She smiled. Crookedly.

His eyes dropped, followed by his mouth, which peppered kisses down her throat and continued to kiss when the cold air turned her naked skin to gooseflesh. He licked her shoulder and she held onto his, meeting his lips and breaking away to watch him undo his tie and shrug off his shirt. She ran her hands over his chest, hard and lean, ending in narrow hips. He was almost constructed like an arrow, delicate and thin with an artistic arch, but nonetheless built to strike.

And his skin was very pale. Snowy even.

"What are you thinking?" he said, molding his mouth against hers again once his trousers were off. His erection poked her belly, then folded between them when he crushed her close. Her thighs were damp. "Tell me, Hermione."

"I am thinking that I want you," she admitted.

He sniggered into her neck, tickling her. "I'm thinking the very same thing." And he picked her up, throwing her nerves in a jumble when he smirked to see her wetness and lay her down on the bed.

She watched with wide eyes as he came down beside her, then rolled on top so that their chests were flushed together and legs intertwined. His erection was hard and lay just above her sex, tormenting the burn there and eliciting a hoarse pant from her. She struggled toward him.

"Not just yet," Master Riddle said, stopping her and pulling back. She frowned. Where was he going? "I need to prepare you first," he explained, spreading her thighs and moving his fingers between her vulva. She gasped.

He inserted a finger and she gasped, her entire lower body stretching toward him before he pushed her back down against the mattress. She thrashed when he added another digit, saying his name senselessly, chanting it.

"Yes, say my name, Hermione," Master Riddle purred, moving his lips back and forth over the space between her breasts as he worked her. "Only I can give you this pleasure. Only I can feel how tight you are and see you squirm like this." She gasped when his third finger joined the others inside her, the stretch and pumping a delicious torture. "You're always so wet for me, so ready and willing. I can't wait to be inside you."

She arched as the first wave hit her.

"My cock is aching for you, Hermione," he told her. "Do you want me inside you now?"

"Y-yes, I want you inside me-" And her mouth gaped in a silent scream, one that was eclipsed by his tongue as she came on his hand, shuddering and shaking. He pulled back, then lifted her hips and aligned the tip of his member at her entrance. The heat rolling off her sex made him want to plunge inside her.

The haze of orgasm faded as Master Riddle prepared to take her virginity, and she tensed, curling her nails into the sheets and going rigid when he so slowly began to enter her. He told her to relax, but she found it impossible to when his wide girth stretched her more. She glanced down, nibbling her lip worriedly, – what if he didn't fit? – and found he wasn't even halfway in. A tear slipped out her eye.

He shifted his hips, and he was inside her.

"Merlin, Hermione you're so damn _tight," _he growled, eyes clenched shut, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. "Are you–?"

She wasn't.

"Sssh, quiet," he said, wiping away the tears. Her teeth were gritted, knuckles gone white. He carefully pried her fingers off the sheets and they clenched his in a rigid grip. "You feel so good, Hermione…"

Her inner muscles flexed, trying to reject him, and only making it harder for him to stay so still. "I do?" she panted.

"Yes." He kissed her lightly. "And I imagine I feel much like the Big Ben?"

A broken laugh slipped out of her. "A bit," she said, wincing. "When does it stop hurting?"

"Soon." He rubbed his hands up and down her sides, like he was trying to warm her up to him, and the splitting agony inside her slowly ebbed as she painstakingly adjusted. She looked down again, surprised and a little aroused to see Master Riddle's member fully inside her. He was in to the hilt.

"I'm going to try moving, Hermione," he said, coursing his lips down her neck and lifting himself to his palms. "Tell me how it feels."

"Alright." She wrapped her hands around his shoulders, bracing herself, sucking in an instinctive gasp when he slid out an inch and then back in.

He felt delicious.

"Keep going, please," she breathed, and he started to pull out farther, to go in more, to stroke her walls with his member and run his thumbs over her hardened nipples at once. She began gasping when he took her waist and commenced a frantic slide-and-grind, slamming into her, rubbing his hips against hers once in so far the rim under his head caught on something spongy and maddening inside her when he pulled back before beginning the intoxicating dance all over again.

She mumbled his name over and over, and he said hers, cursing and snarling and groaning and filling her endlessly. Her hands fell from his arms due to sweat and she wrapped one around his neck, clenching her eyes shut even as his bored into her, watching her breasts bounce and her hair frizz and cling to her damp skin, seeing himself disappear inside her again and again and getting closer to release with each hit.

Hermione came around him with a desperate cry, fingers scrabbling for help and catching in his hair, pulling it tight as he flew in and out of her.

"So close," he ground out. "_Fucking__-" _ And he came inside her, member twitching as his seed spilled through in the most intimate way possible, marking her as his forever, even if she was a Malfoy, even if he would have to destroy her and her family one day.

Because in this second, she was his and he owned her.

The rest was not important for now.

* * *

There was a body on top of her.

Hermione panicked at first, wondering why on earth she was naked as an infant, why the person on _top _of her was naked also, and why her handmaid Bridget was four feet away and staring at them with the same amount of shock in her eyes as there was currently in her brain, her serving tray hanging from one hand and all of its priceless contents splashed across the floor in a mirage of china and hot tea.

_You've done it now, Ladybird, _Miss Pross sighed.

Satan was howling.

And she slowly looked down, past the broad shoulder and pale back swelling halfway into her vision, at the sheets thrown over them, at the toss of dark hair against ivory pillows and darling eyelashes. And she saw Master Riddle. And she remembered everything.

She was _ruined_.

"Lady Hermione…" breathed Bridget, face flaming with embarrassment, her mouth bobbing open and closed like a fish's. "What is… Have you… _Master Riddle…_ oh my… Lord Merlin take me righ' here…_Master Riddle… _I… _oh… _m'lady…"

"Bridget, please don't tell," she burst out, which was probably the exact opposite of what she should've done – it was certainly the opposite of what Draco or Narcissa would've done – and she clasped her hands in pleading. At her outburst, Master Riddle stirred.

Seeing her, he sat up, and the blanket fell to his waist. The sunlight streaming through the cracked sheers ran across his naked chest then – and Bridget promptly fell to the floor in a dead faint. Hermione cried out.

He blinked. "Am I that hideous in daylight?"

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands, mortified. "She saw us," she lamented. "My _handmaid _saw us and she fainted and she's going to tell and I'll be disowned and sent to the nearest convent to become a nun – oh Lord, I'm utterly done for now-"

"Stop that," Master Riddle said sharply. He Summoned his wand. "There's no reason to worry, Hermione."

"No reason to worry?" she said shrilly. "Did you see her collapse? We nearly killed her."

"It was only the shock." And when her pain did not ease he nuzzled her cheek, trying to get her to smile. She would not. "You seem to have forgotten the perks of magic," he informed her, nodding at the form feet away on the floor. They stared at poor, fallen Bridget. "Put your hand over mine, Hermione."

_No, don't do it, _Miss Pross immediately interjected. _You can just wait until Bridget wakes up and ask her to keep this quiet. After all that you've done for her, she wouldn't dream of telling anyone about this. _

_What did she say? _Madame Defarge said irritably in French, rousing herself. Psyche translated. _Pft! You know that English handmaid would throw you under La Guillotine in a heartbeat if it meant saving her neck. She doesn't owe you anything. You two are of different ranks and you happen to be higher than her. Deep inside, she'll always hate you, and she'll ruin you at the first chance- _

_Oh, he's so handsome, _Psyche sighed. She let her violet eyes swim down Master Riddle's long sinewy back, reveling in it. _So much like Cupid. By the gods, if I wasn't sacrificed… _

_Do it, _Satan said. His ruby eyes glanced off Bridget carelessly. _She won't know, so no one will be hurt. If you ask her to keep quiet then there always runs the chance that she might tattle. She'll hold it over your head. This way is safer though. It's smarter. _

It was smarter, wasn't it?

She tentatively put her hand on Master Riddle's and together they lifted his wand. She felt his magic flow out of the yew stick, lighting through space to Bridget's chest as he uttered _"Obliviate" _and then _"Imperio." _

Bridget's eyes were curiously blank, her expression slack as she picked up the mess of tea and left the room without a word. She shut the door, promising in a distant voice to bring new tea and biscuits. Hermione slumped in relief.

"See?" Master Riddle said, putting aside his wand and wrapping his arms around her from behind. "All better."

"Yes," she said warily. "...better."

Satan agreed.

"Where is your bath?" he inquired, looking around. "We should clean up."

"Across the hall."

"Is it far?"

"No. It's just the door opposite mine."

"And the popularity of this hall in the morning is very low, is it not?"

She was confused, but replied, "I suppose so, Master Riddle."

He smirked into her neck. "Then why don't we bathe together?" he whispered mischievously. Her eyes widened. "I would enjoy seeing you wet and naked, Hermione, especially in that rosewater you've been telling me about."

She flushed. "But what if-?"

"We won't get caught." He nibbled her shoulder and said the words, the words he knew to be her undoing, the key to unlocking every secret she had and getting whatever he wanted from her: "I promise, Hermione."

"Well… alright." She spoke in hush, as if afraid to be caught already, and they got out of bed. He put on his rumpled Hogwarts uniform – today was a school day, but he could easily invent a story about catching something while out in the cold when he returned to Hogwarts, for Dippet believed every word he said – and Hermione slipped on a terrycloth robe, tying it tightly and mumbling that Bridget would properly dress her later.

She turned toward him, but then something caught her eye and made her blanch. He looked, too, and saw what she was looking at.

A bloodstain had crawled across the sheets.

"You don't need to be embarrassed," he said, Vanishing the mark and wishing he could spell away the embarrassment on her face as well. He frowned. "It's natural."

Hermione bit her lip. "Right." And she shook herself, facing him with a springy, nervous smile. "Are we going to sneak out now, Master Riddle?" she asked.

"We're going three feet past your door," he said drily, "that hardly qualifies as 'sneaking.'"

And it really didn't, for they slipped into the bathing room in a matter of seconds without a single soul there to witness, he locking the door and casting wards should anyone try to enter whilst Hermione drew the bath and rummaged through cabinets for soaps. She was flushed and jittery and her hair frizzed out of all control as she moved along. She was exhilarated. She was free as he'd never seen her.

And highly amusing.

"It's ready," she said, standing back. "Or at least, I think it is. This is what Bridget does anyway." Steam rose off the tub, along with the choking scent of roses. "But I may have overdone the scenting a bit..."

Hermione started when she felt Master Riddle at her back, the smell of aftershave faded but still present on him. His spidery fingers weaved through her sash so that her robe gaped open. "It smells like you in here," he observed, and she laughed, but the sound turned into a gasp when his hands roamed over her exposed body.

He grasped her breasts and twisted the pink peaks until they pebbled, making her squirm restlessly as he began to rub himself into her backside. The burn between her thighs scorched and spread all throughout her. "Do you want me, Hermione?" he murmured, bringing them toward the tub and shucking off her robe. His member touched her back. "Do you want me inside you again?"

"Yes," she breathed, closing her eyes.

"Say it then."

"I want you inside me, Master Riddle."

"So do I." He took her hair and pulled it, holding her head aside and laying his mouth on her neck, swirling his tongue over her and sucking. She bit her lip. "But let's test the waters first, shall we?"

She agreed dazedly and stepped in first. The warm water swished around her knees, then he joined her and it rose higher, then even higher when they sank into the marble basin. She blushed when he pulled her between his thighs and snaked his arms around her middle, lacing his fingers over her navel.

"Lay back, my Hermione," he said in a suave whisper. "I'll wash you."

"Oh, um, alright," she said, surprised and flustered. He reached for a sponge and soap, and her eyes drifted shut as he moved it over her arms, then her neck – a place he assigned more attention than necessary – which was followed by her breasts, her stomach, and her back. He bent them nearly in half when he washed her legs, and her breath caught when he danced his fingers all the way up her thighs to the very inside – and then swooped to another area. Her sex throbbed from torment.

"What shall I wash next?" Master Riddle pretended to muse, kneading her backside with his fingers and listening to her heavy breathing with a smirk. "Any suggestions?"

"Down, please," she panted.

"Down where?" he said innocently. His hand moved to her hip. "Here?" To the other hip. "Or here?"

"No, l-lower." She twisted, trying to meld into him, and his free arm snapped around her ribs just below her breasts, holding her still. The other hand explored to just an inch away from the place she wanted it most, tracing the skin next to her sex until it burned. She had subconsciously spread her thighs wide open.

"No, no," she said, frustrated when he continued to torment her and his fingers danced away again. He laughed.

"Come now," he said, moving one finger a hair closer. "Say it, Hermione. Say _touch my cunt."_

"No, I-I couldn't. I'm not supposed to swear-"

"You're also not supposed to let me fuck you or suck my cock halfway down your throat, are you?" He sucked a spot on her neck, pulling the skin into his mouth and holding it there with his teeth, licking it fastidiously. "But you do anyway," he said, letting her go. The skin he released glared bright red. He kneaded one of her breasts with the hand that forced her to be still. "So now you'll say what I want you to say, right now."

Psyche melted.

"Please," she began huskily, "please touch my…cunt, Master Riddle."

His hand immediately moved over her, cupping her fully and already beginning to soothe the burn there. "I'm glad you asked so nicely, because your cunt feels lovely. So warm and soft," he said, rubbing his finger between her folds and inducing a spasmodic jerk from her. "And it certainly needs to be cleaned, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Master Riddle," she gasped.

"Would you like me to clean you?"

"Yes, yes. Please-"

"Then stand up, Hermione."

She blinked, confused. What did he want her to stand up for? But he had pulled his hands away and he was waiting, so she carefully clambered to her feet and shivered, wrapping her arms around herself at the cooler temperature. Master Riddle's eyes were on her sex and hungry. Her face suffused with heat.

"Come here," he commanded. "And spread your legs."

_Oh gods, is he going to be really looking at it? _Psyche said, shocked violet eyes going rounder when Hermione obeyed Master Riddle and went over until she was close enough that he took her thighs in his hands and yanked her forward another step, so that she hovered directly over him. She was so humiliated she couldn't open her eyes.

"Hold onto something and bend," Master Riddle said, his breath tickling her sex and making her jump when his hands pulled her toward him more. She scrambled to grab something, finding purchase in a tile on the wall and holding on. Then it happened.

Master Riddle _licked _her.

Down there.

With his _tongue_.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to contain the surprised yelp that burst out of her, biting her fingers and shuddering when he raised a bit higher, gripping her more firmly and steadily lapping at her sex. He inhaled deeply and she whimpered when he bit the inside of each of her folds, moving higher and latching onto a small nub that instantly sent a jolt of pleasure through her. He raked his teeth over it.

"Master Riddle." She said it soft as a prayer. She screeched it. She moaned it. She clawed at the tiled wall like a trapped animal when he stabbed his tongue in and out of her entrance, reaching up a finger to rub her clitoris, and then another to slip between her backside and circle the bundle of nerves there. The familiar pressure built up in her and her legs shook, threatening to give out when he licked her faster still.

He even growled into her, stretching open his whole mouth to cup her, teeth catching on her clit as he closed it over her entrance and she came with a loud cry, her orgasm trembling through her and onto his tongue. He rubbed her backside coaxingly, palming the cheeks, and she slowly fell down, into his arms in the water.

"That… I…" she babbled. He shushed her.

"Are you sore?" he said.

"A little."

"I'll take you then." And he popped the drain and rose to a stand, his erection springing vertically, he pulling her up as the water slowly swirled away and pressing her into the wall. "Hold onto me, because I'm going to fuck you hard and fast," he said, dropping a kiss on her shoulder and aligning himself.

She put her arms around his neck and he hitched one of her legs onto his hip.

He entered her sharply, and she cried out, her sex remembering his delectable abuse from last night – or very early in the morning, she should say – and clutching his cock as he slid in and out of her. He was true to his word and was rough, not pulling out nearly all the way as he had last night before moving back in, but hammering into her in short, quick thrusts that shuddered up her frame and threatened to shatter her bones. His mouth was twisted in a grimace, eyes dark and slanted brows knotted in concentration, his sweat gathering under her fingertips.

She held on tightly, and it was as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the world, his testis slapping the skin just beneath her entrance with each hit, her wet breasts crushed against him and heart beating erratically.

"So – fucking – _good_," he groaned, shoving her into the wall with his hips. "I'm going to take you everywhere, in every way, and come inside you every damn time, Hermione."

"Y-yes, please-" And he met her mouth hungrily, throwing her up into the air with each pound, going faster at her wanton moans. He put both her legs around him and entered deeper. He tweaked her nipples until they burned and another orgasm overcame her, slicking his cock. He grabbed her waist, going faster. Going harder.

Finally, his movements stilled and his seed washed through her, some of it trickling out when he slowly extracted himself. She winced at the emptiness.

The tub was drained.

"You're dripping with me," Master Riddle said and moved a finger over her raw sex, pulling away to show her the white liquid on his digit. "Have a taste."

She did without question now, taking his finger in her mouth and cleaning it. He chuckled at her eagerness to please. "How do I taste, Hermione? Tell me."

"Salty," she said instantly and blushed when a laugh exploded out of him.

"How…how do I taste, Master Riddle?" she asked, shy and hesitant.

His grin was wicked. "Salty like me, now."

Hermione giggled. She giggled because she was standing there naked in the bathing room with Master Riddle after having just had sex with him twice and swearing for the first time, after having spelled Bridget, whose tea had probably gone cold by now, and because she just licked her lover's semen from her own sex. And she felt naughty. And she liked it. She liked all of it, in fact.

She probably liked it too much.

But she hardly cared.

"I'm glad you got lost in the manor that day," she said, hugging him tightly. He tensed, surprised. "If you hadn't I would've never met you or kissed you or… or any of this." _I love you, Master Riddle._

She did, with everything inside her and more.

She shouldn't tell him yet though.

Not yet.

Voldemort let Hermione keep her warm arms around him. Her embrace was slightly claustrophic and extremely satisfying at once, somehow. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of her hair. Like roses.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear, like the words were a delicious secret, and right now... that was exactly what they were.

Their secret.

And it certainly was delicious.

* * *

**AN: Kashow... I wish my secrets were that exciting. My biggest secret is that I post this stuff online. *heh* Also, please be patient with updates. I have finals right now and no Wifi at home (I know, I need to pay the cable bill already), but all the chapters for DD are pre-written. So no worries about any abandoned stories here. **

**Thanks for reading, as always, and if you have any thoughts you'd like to voice just put them in a review below. Or if you want a penpal... **

**MUAH.**

**Kisses,  
ImmortalObsession**


	8. Crowds

**AN: Hi everyone! Thank you all for reading and reviewing; your support means so much to me. :) I finally got to squeeze in an update for DD and I'm uber excited (and kind of freaking out? I've got a French exam in a few hours, guuuuhhh) Anyway, you darlings go read while _j'__étudie. _**

* * *

_"In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost." _  
_―_ Dante Alighieri,_ Inferno_

* * *

Yet again, Lady Hermione was in quite a distracted state during instruction. Her tutor Umbridge had at last deemed her a lost cause – fortunately for her – and the woman simply pretended not to notice the distant staring. Master Riddle had left for Hogwarts hours ago, using Disapparation to arrive just outside the grounds at about lunchtime. Or so he told Hermione this was his plan of action.

Idly, she inscribed his name on her writing parchment. _Master Riddle. Lord Riddle. Lady Riddle. _Could she be Lady Riddle? Or was she silly for hoping? But why would that be silly of her? He said she was his. In marriage, they could be each other's permanently and the whole world would know it. He only had to court her and propose. With an upstanding reputation such as his, Lord Malfoy would be hard pressed to say no.

But Lord Malfoy would never agree, would he?

Then again, she could always run away with him, just as Juliet had with Romeo in Shakespeare's play – except that those teenage lovers died horrible deaths in their fight to be together. Their love was forbidden. Was hers forbidden as well?

She wrote in the left hand.

She switched, quickly, and scribbled out her doodles seconds before Umbridge waltzed by. The tutor was deep in the thralls of National Issues and listing efforts to exterminate what she'd begun to refer to as _the vermin. _As in Muggleborns.

Hermione glanced at Bridget, who had joined their lesson today and watched on silently. What could she be thinking now? Hermione wondered. What would Bridget have done if she hadn't fainted, if she weren't spelled into forgetting that she found her lady with a lover in bed? Did she despise her family? Did she detest Purebloods?

_Would _I_ hate Purebloods if I were Bridget? If I were a Muggleborn?_

The answer was clear.

* * *

Her music lessons that day passed in a series of secret smiles and soft laughter, enticing Bridget to peek in more than once to check on them; although the handmaid did not find anything particularly interesting inside except for Lady Hermione performing a terrible abuse of the clarinet and Master Riddle fighting back snickers at the sight.

"Perhaps you would fare best at the kazoo," he suggested, earning a dark glare from Hermione before she resumed her attempt at cello.

"Please, Master Riddle," she sniffed. "I am trying to concentrate."

"And I am trying not to spoil your mood by laughing at you." He was serious.

She sighed, putting down the bow and almost toppling under the weight of her crinoline. He caught her just, eyes flitting to the door to find Bridget's white cap present but her watchful gaze not, and he steadied her, keeping his hands on her waist a moment too long and an inch too low to be deemed appropriate. Her eyes darted to the door, too.

She put her hands over his lightly. His fingers twisted through hers.

And then they were standing apart, at a respectable distance, hating it and eying each other and grinning secretly like foolish tykes. "You were saying, Master Riddle?" she probed.

"I was saying that you should try the viola," he said and moved to the very instrument, showing her the position and bidding her to imitate it.

A moment before the clock tolled and marked the end of their lesson, Master Riddle leaned toward Hermione under the pretense of tuning a string. He spoke covertly. "Meet me here at eleven o'clock. Don't be late."

She nodded.

Then Bridget took her away, and the night's events went as they usually did. Her family settled in and Draco could be heard out on the lawn practicing Quidditch until the very last ray of sunlight vanished. Bridget returned to dress her for bed and Hermione sent the handmaid to London for books, telling her to stay at an inn and return the next morning for convenience. She waited for the hours to pass impatiently.

She brushed her hair at the vanity.

She took out the diary and flipped it open – she had written more music notes on the pages for practice.

She checked the clock. Again and again and again.

Hermione looked sideways at the mirror before her and said, demurely as possible, "Oh, why hello Mr. So-and-so, I am Lady Riddle. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. How do you do?"

It didn't sound quite right.

And she looked sort of cross-eyed when she did it.

_Temptress, indeed, _Psyche scoffed, laughing herself silly and popping a grape. Hermione leered at her and the Greek beauty promptly began to choke on the seeds.

_That's what you get for being so rude_ _to Ladybird_, Miss Pross tutted.

Hermione donned the mask and looked to the clock once more. Ten minutes until eleven o'clock. _Close enough. _She flitted over to her bed and checked the top right pillowcase, where she put the newspaper clipping of Master Riddle when she did not wear a corset to store it. She touched her lips to the soft, wimpy paper and put it back.

Hermione realized that she should have been exhausted, staying up so late every night. But she had never felt more alive.

Standing outside of the music room, she knocked on the door softly. "Master Riddle?" she whispered, eyes flitting up and down the dark hall in a fit of nerves. She didn't know what she would do if a servant saw her.

_Of course you know, _said Satan. _You'll do exactly what Master Riddle did. Obliviate them. Imperio them into walking the other way – or worse. _

_Ladybird would never do that, _Miss Pross snapped. _Off with you, you nasty snake._

_Want to see how nasty I can truly be?_

Miss Pross looked appalled. _How dare you, you, you-_

_Aw, all out of synonyms, now are we? _Satan snickered.

_I am a Christian woman. Away with you, devil!_

"Shut it, both of you," hissed Hermione. She checked the hall once more, and suddenly the door to the music room opened and a hand sprang out, yanking her inside.

Master Riddle held her against the door like a human trap, a hand going just beside her to lock the knob with a tap of his wand, which he pocketed in the next heartbeat. His other hand held her wrists pinned above her. Hermione gaped at him, gasping.

"What are you _doing?" _

"Having a bit of fun." He smirked. "I thought I'd try to scare you. Did it work?"

"Yes, it worked," she fumed. "You could've warned me, you know-"

"But then it wouldn't have been a surprise, now would it?" He leaned close, making her forget what she was going to say next, and she smelled aftershave on him. And cigarette smoke. "I've been wanting you all day," he said. "Thinking about you in the bath, all wet and begging me to touch you."

He pressed his hips against hers and she bit her lip, squirming when she felt his hardness. He thought about her at school, like _that?_ She blushed. "Did you think about me, my fair lady?" he taunted softly.

"Y-yes." She would have touched him had he released her hands. "I thought of you often…"

"Good." He ran his nose up her throat and higher, stopping when his lips hovered over hers. "You can only think of me. You can only want me."

"I do," she murmured.

"Excellent." He nibbled her lip and she opened her mouth, granting him the entrance he wanted, meeting his tongue and tangling with it, struggling when he began to tug at the buttons on his shirt. It hung open. She wanted to run her hands down his chest, to feel his muscles flex and go taut under her touch, to feel the contours of his sculpted abdomen.

"When I let go of you," he said, "undress and go kneel on the piano bench."

She hesitated, but nodded.

He let go.

She rubbed her sore wrists, studying the way Master Riddle's fingers had quickly bruised her and how the marks just as speedily faded back into whiteness. She went over to the piano and started to undress, blushing when the sound of Master Riddle's own clothing hitting the floor ceased and was replaced by the hot burn of his eyes on her. She unraveled the spool of silk that stole her breath when she slept and knelt on the piano bench, staring out the window.

The moon was out.

Under the glare, Master Riddle looked paler than usual. Iridescent even. She wondered what his skin might look like in the sun. Would it burn and peel, or warm to a buttery brown as hers did?

She wanted to find out.

"Put your hands on the lid," he commanded, running his fingers gently over her spine once he was behind her. He made her feel like a piano. He played her just like one. Anticipation thrummed low in her stomach and she did as he said, waiting.

Master Riddle moved her hair aside and leaned into her, putting his mouth to her ear. "I'm going to take you from behind now, Hermione," he told her, "and then I'm going to take you against the window and afterward you're going to suck my cock to show me your gratitude. Then I'll fuck your mouth and come on your smart cheek." His finger dripped down said cheek like a tear. "And you're going to adore every second of it."

She breathed heavily. "Yes, Master Riddle."

"And what do you want, Hermione?"

"I want you inside me," she said thickly. "I want you to take me."

"I know you do." He ran his hand up and down the swell of her hip, nudging her legs apart with his knee, pushing her into the piano as he positioned her. Then he'd taken his erection and was rubbing the tip of it up and down between her folds, making her breath hitch and a hoarse plea erupt out of her.

"I know because you're cunt is sopping wet," he chuckled. "Pink and swollen and aching for me." He pushed in an inch and she gasped. "_Tight._" Another inch. "Hot." He ran his tongue up her back. A keen escaped her, high-pitched and desperate, as he rubbed circles into her shoulders where he gripped her. "Begging me to fuck you."

"Please…" she sighed, feeling drugged and wound like a spool of thread, only able to be undone at his word, at his say. She tried to wriggle toward him, but he held her firmly in place.

Master Riddle pushed in all the way. The cold piano felt like a burn on her sensitive peaks and she laid her perspiring cheek against it, gasping. "I'm going to take you so hard every time you _fidget_ tomorrow your cunt will hurt and you'll think of me, inside you, dominating you."

"Yes," she breathed. He started to move in and out of her, finally, easing her ache, filling the emptiness slowly, savoring it. Her walls seemed to be created just for him, and he rotated his hips, changing the angle so that she cried louder and clenched tighter, pounding in faster and harder, the sound of his testis slapping her hashing through the room.

She came soon after, pushing back into him with a low whimper, and he kept going, scrotum beginning to tighten and pants getting louder. He took her on the piano polished Malfoys had perched at for centuries, coming into her sweet sex and pulling out swiftly. She yelped when he threw her over her shoulder, bringing them to the vast window looking out on the snowy grounds that went for miles of countryside and pushing her against it.

"Again," he said roughly and spread her thighs, entering her.

She grappled onto his shoulders and shivers exploded over her at the sensation of the freezing window, hardening her nipples. He caught one in his teeth and she moaned, arching into his mouth. He slid his length in and out of her, eliciting another orgasm from her and propping his hands on the window on each side of her head. He attacked her neck, ravaging it and bruising, unable to hold back the sexual desire to inflict pain anymore. He broke skin and her hips flew into his, causing a chain reaction that had him coming again.

"You taste so good," he mumbled, tasting the metallic bitterness of blood on his tongue and making a mess of her as he pillaged the milky skin. "So good, Hermione."

"Master Riddle?" Her eyes fluttered open, dazed. She looked down and saw the crimson sliding to her shoulder, on his mouth. She was surprised. "How…?"

He looked at her, and his eyes were those of an animal's.

Then something seemed to…click.

He pulled away, pulled out of her, and she fell to the floor. He frowned at the blood and touched his lips. She watched on as if in a dream. Master Riddle had bit her. He bit her and he told her she tasted good, as if he were some sort of vampire. He'd hurt her and she had…

She had _liked_ it.

"I liked that," she said aloud, stunned. Master Riddle, who had been crafting apologies, stared at her. He'd wiped off the blood.

"You liked what?" he said slowly.

"I liked it when you hurt me." She stepped toward him and he stayed still, moving here nor there. A statue with flashing eyes. "I… Would you… would you do it again, Master Riddle?"

_Masochist._

She knew the term, she knew what it meant and whom it applied to.

_Sadist._

She knew he had liked it, too, that he liked inflicting the pain on her. He said he enjoyed seeing her squirm, did he not?

It sounded like a reckless combination. She wanted it though, to slide deeper into the rabbit hole Master Riddle seemed to be. To feel him move in her again. To be hurt.

"You liked it." He didn't seem to have heard her last statement. He looked bewildered, an emotion she had never seen him wear before. "You _liked _it when I hurt you."

"You liked hurting me," she whispered. "Right?"

He nodded tightly.

She licked her lips. "So why not, Master Riddle? Why not hurt me, if I like it, I mean? If you like it? I can heal myself with a potion or spell…afterward. I'll be perfectly fine."

"I'm sorely tempted to say yes." He was gazing at her intently, thoughtfully. "Why do you like it?" he asked.

"I don't know." She bit her lip. "I like the way it felt and… I…I just liked it."

That was how he felt. Not that he'd ever shown the monster within after his first encounter in bed and the girl ran away screaming after. He had heard of societies that practiced in his appetites, of course; some of them stationed in Knockturn Alley and others underground. Most of them ran with the Mudblood slave trade, however, which repelled him.

"Master Riddle?" Hermione said, calling him back to his senses. "Could we just try it maybe?" She looked hopeful.

He found himself nodding. Yes, they could try, because here was an opportunity before him. An answer. A solution to his oddness – or a calamity. "Yes," he said.

She smiled and returned to him, standing on her toes to kiss him, shivering when he flitted his fingers over her neck and healed it with a nonverbal incantation. The moon was gone, but the sun hadn't come to replace it just yet, and the gas lamps were the only source of light now. Tomorrow night would be nothing like this.

The storm was coming soon.

But for now, he listened to Hermione's noises of satisfaction and small sounds, raking his nails so that they stung on the way down her back. She kissed his chest and when his erection poked her, she sidled down to her knees and ran her fingers down the underside of his shaft, playing, inducing a twitch. She took hold of him and kissed the head, drawing the sensitive tip into her mouth and sucking until it began to hurt.

He grabbed hold of her hair, hissing "Go down now, Hermione."

She swirled his tongue around his length and did, sucking, cupping his testis the way he liked, choking when he shoved his hips forward. His cock throttled her as he fucked her mouth just the way he said he would, flexing his hips forward and back, her throat muscles clenching around him and throbbing. She rubbed his hips at the same time, encouraging, pleasing and pleased when he chanted her name.

"Yes, that's it, Hermione. Almost, _yes, yes. _It hurts, doesn't it?_" _She whimpered and he groaned, rocking in and out of her mouth. "Your lips look so good around my cock. Your tongue – _fuck _– yes, lick again. I'm going to– Keep sucking, don't stop until I tell you to."

He suddenly pulled out and she inhaled sharply. He tipped her head back just in time for his seed to spurt onto her face, in her open mouth and in her hair. "Perfect." His eyes hazed with lust. "Did you like that?"

She nodded.

"Show me," he bid. "Show me you liked having my cock shoved down your throat."

She found his eyes and caught him in her lips, licking him appreciatively, up the side of his shaft and over his slit, bending down to kiss his testis and suck them lightly. He rubbed the back of her neck coaxingly and she kissed his pelvis, following the sharp V with her lips before looking up again. "I loved having your cock shoved down my throat, Master Riddle," she said naughtily.

And she was innocent no longer.

He exhaled contentedly.

"And do you love my come on your face?"

"Yes." She rose to her feet, pulling his head down to her and kissing him softly. "Because I'm yours and you're mine."

He blinked. _I'm yours and you're mine._

He never said he was hers.

Was he?

Voldemort could never be trapped, never be held back by anyone – but she didn't hold him back. She understood him in ways, did she not?

Tomorrow. He only had to wait until tomorrow and then he would test her loyalty, her knowledge, and he would see if she was truly his. If she was, then…

_Tomorrow_. Wait for tomorrow.

Hermione smiled and kissed him again.

* * *

She was halfway through lessons when there was a knock on the door.

Umbridge stopped mid-lecture and shut her eyes, mouthing a soft prayer that Hermione assumed either included a pay raise, patience, or a husband who did not spend half his time with prostitutes – or perhaps all three. She tried not to let her amusement show.

Umbridge's eyes snapped open at the next knock, harder and louder than the last. "How dare you, you filthy cockroach!" she screeched, storming over. "Who do you think you are, Mudblood, _calling_ on your superi– mehhemhem."

Hermione looked up at this odd finish, in time to see a lady with long, shimmering black hair and a tight-fitting dark blue travelling dress sweep past her tutor inside. She gasped. "Aunty Bella!"

"Hermione, darling, it is so good to see you again," Bellatrix Lestrange said sweetly, casting her a wide smile and coming over with arms extended. Hermione stood from her desk and they embraced, fiercely.

As her aunt pulled away, she whispered, "Who's the pink toad?"

Hermione laughed. "My tutor," she said. "This is Professor Umbridge."

"Ah," Bellatrix said, eying Umbridge with faint interest in her smoky kohl-lined eyes. Ladies did not usually wear makeup any bolder than face powder, but Aunty Bella always wore eyeliner and drank red wine to deepen the shade of her burgundy lips. She was a beauty, much like her sister – but she was also the wild card of the family. In her wake trailed scandals from Brussels to Bombay, and she always visited the manor without warning.

But she had a certain girlish charm that made everyone she met adore her. A nomadic spirit that could no be more stifled than it could be controlled.

Umbridge, still standing at the door and looking much like a victim that had been petrified by the gorgon Medusa, snapped out of her daze when Bridget slipped into the room, too. "My deepest apologies, Lady Lestrange," the tutor simpered, in a sudden miraculous recovery. "I was not aware that you were coming and I – hem hem – have a very severe head cold that has had me quite out of sorts…"

"You were not?" Bellatrix said, widening her eyes in feigned shock. "How strange, my visit has been planned for weeks now!" A bold lie. "One of the servants must have told you, surely?"

"I…" Umbridge frowned and her beady gaze fell on Bridget, narrowing. "Why no, no one notified me at all."

"Then I am very sorry for the inconvenience, Professor Umbridge," said Bellatrix regretfully. Behind the glaring tutor's turned back, however, she was ushering Hermione into a cloak and walking boots. "But I simply cannot change my plans. I am to spend the day with my darling niece in Diagon Alley. The little Mudbloods must have simply forgotten. You are aware that their brains are physically smaller, of course, and have lesser capacity than ours."

"Yes, yes, of course..."

Bridget nearly melted under Umbridge's glower and past all Hermione's excitement, she felt badly for letting Aunty Bella pin the blame on her handmaid.

Bellatrix shoved a bonnet at her.

"Well then, a good day to you, Professor Umbridge," said Bellatrix and Hermione repeated this.

"Yes, yes good day, ladies…" Umbridge said faintly.

Bellatrix performed a quick, hardly-there curtsy and tugged Hermione along through the door after her. They turned the corner and a sharp slap could be heard from the corridor they'd just abandoned, followed by an angry shout and more slapping. Hermione glanced back, worried. Her aunt giggled beside her.

"Oh, that was too easy," Bellatrix enthused. "But thank Lord Merlin I came here in time. I only learned last night that Lucius had finally left the manor, away on business or something of the sort, and I _begged_ Rodolphus to let me come and see you. He's still in Barcelona for Dumbledore, but agreed to allow me to stay here for three days. Such a relief, I can never get away from that man fast enough…"

"Barcelona?" she said, surprised.

"Ah yes, in Spain." Her aunt sighed wistfully. "It's so beautiful there. Hot and lovely and _oh, _the men… Well, I'll have to take you there sometime, won't I? Perhaps the next time your father leaves I will sneak you away again." She laughed, a wicked sound that thrilled through the veins and somehow bid the sun to shine brighter even on the gloomiest of days. Hermione joined her.

Aunty Bella was twenty-four years her senior, but she didn't seem a day over sixteen with her full dark hair and dancing eyes. Mischief radiated from her like light reflecting off the moon.

"We are going to Diagon Alley, Aunty Bella?"

"Yes, just don't let anyone recognize you." Bellatrix glanced over her. "Pull the bonnet lower… yes, there, that's good. I can't even see your mask." Hermione smiled. "Now, what have you been up to, my pet? Tell me everything."

"Everything?"

_Does that include becoming Master Riddle's mistress and slipping into the music room late at night to have wild sex with him when everyone goes to sleep like a common whore?_ Psyche said innocently.

Bellatrix hummed.

She bit her lip. "Well, I-"

"Oh, wait a moment, darling," her aunt interrupted, bringing them to a halt in the main hall. Their arms stayed interlocked. "You there, Mudblood! Come here."

Their butler Thomas looked up and, seeing them, scurried over from his post at the door. The flaps of his waist coast rippled like banners after him. "Yes, miss?" he said, bowing.

Her aunt's demure smile turned hard. "I believe you meant to say _Lady Lestrange, _Mudblood."

He faltered. Clearing his throat, he said, "I apologize, Lady Lestrange." He bowed to Hermione. "Lady Hermione."

"Much better, boy," Bellatrix said, her air of childlike happiness resumed. She fluttered a gloved hand through the air and pointed at the austere double doors. "Get the door for us and fetch a carriage. We're to go to Diagon Alley today."

"Yes, Lady Lestrange," said Thomas obediently.

Minutes later, they were sitting in one of the family carriages and bumping along the cobblestone road. Bellatrix's arm remained fixed with hers, her smoky eyes sliding past the soppy countryside slowly turning to spring outside with distaste.

"I must get you away from here, Hermione," she said. "You need to see the world outside of wet, rainy England."

"I would like to, Aunty Bella."

Bellatrix made a small noise of discontent. "My brother-in-law, however, is too protective to let you out of his sight. He will not entrust you to my supervisions, the mad fool."

Hermione was silent.

"But he won't have a say in any of your travels when you turn seventeen, now will he?" Bellatrix said, smiling at her. "You may move out of the manor, if you wish. You may live with me."

She blinked. "I can?"

"Of course you can. Just be sure not to tell Draco," Bellatrix said. "I adore him, but your brother really is just as irrationally jealous as your father. He has his infamous temper as well and I don't want him having a tantrum during my visit. It will spoil everything."

"Of course, Aunty Bella," she immediately agreed. She grinned, snuggling into her aunt's side. Bellatrix giggled and held her closer.

"We'll go everywhere," her aunt promised, tucking one of Hermione's stray curls back into its plait. "Denmark, New York, Hawaii where we can meet islanders – the men don't even wear shirts there–" Hermione gasped. "–and we'll shop and visit strange caves and hike the Alps and have all the fun in the world."

"Oh my, that sounds thrilling, Aunty Bella." Hermione sighed. "I can hardly wait to leave."

"Just wait a little while longer, my pet. You're almost there."

When they arrived in Diagon Alley, Hermione pulled away, peering out of the window to see horses clop by and sellers on the street. She watched the colorful shops and children running up and down the walks with treats in-hand wind by their carriage, fascinatedly. It was beautiful.

"Sit down, Hermione," Bellatrix chided from behind her. "I know you don't leave the manor often, but at least attempt to control yourself."

"Sorry, Aunty Bella." She sat. "Where are we going first?" she said.

"Well, I doubt you are in need of any new dresses or accessories, so I thought we could stop for a treat and buy some new ribbon before going to the auction."

"The auction?"

"Oh yes," Bellatrix said, angling her bonnet in the reflection of the window. She adjusted her breasts, which threatened to spill from the daringly low neckline of her dress, and Hermione looked away, blushing. "England has the best Mudbloods in all of Europe and I couldn't find any I liked at the auctions in Barcelona," her aunt continued. "I've been looking for a new one since my last Mudblood died, you see... But perhaps I will spoil myself here and buy a set if they aren't too expensive."

"Oh. Yes." But there was a strange squirming in Hermione's belly now. She had heard about auctions, where Muggleborns were bargained for and carted onstage in scraps of cloth that barely covered their nakedness, chained to posts while gentleman and ladies wagered, whipped for sport when the audience became restless.

It sounded horrible.

And she thought of Bridget, who she had so callously left to Umbridge's hands. She shouldn't have done that. She knew, better than anyone, that Umbridge was vicious to Muggleborns. The tutor had even worked for Dumbledore in the Magical Law Enforcement department when he first took over the Ministry (before eliminating it completely, that is), and it had been her specialty to assign punishment to Muggleborns who had 'forgotten their place.'

How could she do that to Bridget? How could she be so selfish?

"We're here," Bellatrix said, rousing her from her guilty thoughts, and stepping outside when the door opened. Hermione let the chauffeur help her down to the walk where she joined her aunt, who took her arm instantly and fluffed their skirts.

Hermione couldn't help but notice that Diagon Alley looked greyer, somehow – now that she knew what they were there for anyway.

They purchased roasted chestnuts at a vendor and ate them out of paper pockets as they strolled through the streets. Seeing so many different people and so much life at every turn lifted her spirits a notch, and while Bellatrix was trying out hats at a flea market she spotted a beggar on the side of a joke shop.

Hermione knew that you weren't supposed to indulge beggars. Once you gave them some money they only doggedly asked for more, and most of the time they were conmen dressed in fake rags.

But this was a child.

She glanced at her aunt, who was paying the cashier, and dropped her pouch of Galleons in the boy's lap. The boy's eyes went wide, but by the time he looked up she was already across the street, arm-in-arm with Bellatrix again.

"I should have gotten red," her aunt tutted, twirling the teal ribbon she'd bought around her finger and tying her volumous curls back in a low bun. Hermione had her own violet ribbon – matching her dress – braided through a lock of hair. "Well, next time, I suppose. Do you want any more snacks before we go to the auction?"

"No thank you, Aunty Bella."

Bellatrix shrugged. It was an unladylike gesture that earned her a few sharp looks from passing governesses and ladies, and lusty eyes from a passing gentleman when the movement enticed him to look at her showing cleavage. For a short moment, Hermione envied her aunt's effortless allure.

She felt bad for feeling that way immediately after.

"Now this is your first auction, isn't it, darling?" Bellatrix said. She nodded. "Well, it's not for the weak of heart and you may feel a bit out of place at first, but I promise you will fit right in soon enough. Girls aren't normally brought to these types of things, but…" She lowered her voice to a surreptitious whisper. "We just won't tell your father, now will we?"

Bellatrix paid for their tickets and they left the piercing cold of Diagon Alley to enter a large auditorium, with a wide stage at the front and hundreds of velvet seats in rows that rose upward. The auction was nearly full already and the people inside varied from highly-regarded viscounts to some of Lord Malfoy's fellow followers (Bellatrix deftly avoided these men, lest they recognize them), to wives and common workers and aged gentleman.

A podium stood on the stage down below, with a man behind it. He wore formal robes and a bowler hat, as well as a monocle glinting impressively over one eye. He introduced himself as Cornelius Fudge, and his voice boomed through the huge room after he waved his wand. Judging by the movements and shade of light that emitted from the tip, it was _Sonorus: _a voice-amplifying spell invented by Albus Dumbledore himself.

They sat down somewhere in the middle of the fray, halfway up the ascending seats and halfway down them. Bellatrix was buzzing with excitement. Hermione tried not to look as nauseous as she felt.

The last of seats filled as more observers and buyers alike hurried inside. All the while, Bellatrix explained the ordeal that was to proceed in Hermione's ear. And then, without warning, from behind the vast curtain the first Muggleborn stepped out.

The auction commenced.

Bellatrix cheered and booed and hissed with the crowd, encouraging Hermione to join in as the minutes ticked along. But Hermione could not find it in herself to. Muggleborn after Muggleborn was hoisted onto stage, manacled always, a choker around their neck if they were 'rabid' or 'runaways with bad reputations.'

Numbers were yelled out, cards upheld and dropped, and Fudge banged his gavel and roared for quiet when the chaos became too much for his bidding to be heard.

It was nothing like at home in the manor, where Muggleborns were finely-dressed and punished in another room. No, here everything was bared to the public. Muggleborns were animals.

And they were the masters.

Looking around at the merciless crowd that entrenched her, however, Hermione felt that _she _was the animal. That she sat among more of them, dressed up like a doll but no more humane for it. And she hated the Purebloods for this. She hated what she was. She hated Aunty Bella every time the beautiful woman lifted her card, just as much as she unlimitedly loved her. She was disgusted by her.

"Ten thousand pounds!" Fudge hollered.

Hermione looked down at the stage. There was a gangly, thin man with spectacles and a shock of black hair. He didn't look any older than her. He had whip marks all over his flesh and wore a choker.

"Eleven thousand?" Fudge wagered next, and no one rose their card to that, until just beside her Bellatrix's hand slowly lifted into the air. Fudge saw this instantly and slammed down the gavel, saying the Mudblood was hers and that her ladyship would claim him at the end of the show.

The Muggleborn's green eyes looked on Bellatrix and blazed. Her aunt simply smiled back, fluttering her fingers in hello.

The young man had to be dragged offstage. After that, Hermione didn't watch anymore, although Bellatrix did buy another Muggleborn. Neville something.

* * *

Bridget did not speak to her that evening, except to announce supper and to say that before her music lessons Lady Lestrange had called everyone for tea in the parlor. She'd insisted on Hermione's presence.

Hermione tried to forget the auction when she saw her aunt, perched on a loveseat in the parlor with Narcissa and Draco, laughing away without a care in the world. They locked eyes and Bellatrix waved her over, sitting straighter, her ruby smile widening.

"Here, sit with me, darling," said Bellatrix. She wore an evening dress with shorter sleeves and new gloves. Hermione had changed as well. "Now, it has come to my attention that there is a rather famous guest here. A Master Riddle, is it?" her aunt said once she'd sat. Narcissa nodded. "How intriguing. Why is he so popular?"

"He composed an opera," Hermione replied, "and he is also held in very high regard by Dumbledore."

"I wonder why that is," Bellatrix mused aloud. "What is he doing here?"

"He is here to give me music lessons," she answered again, for Narcissa and Draco were engaged in conversation. Her mother bid one of the servants hovering on the perimeter of the room to refill her glass of Firewhiskey. Draco and Hermione had champagne.

Bellatrix scoffed. "So he's an old windbag, is he?"

She blushed. "Actually, he attends Hogwarts with Draco."

"Oh." Her aunt looked surprised and arched a threaded brow, taking in the telling flush on her niece's cheeks. "I see."

Bellatrix glanced at Narcissa. Seeing her sister occupied, she sidled closer.

"Is he handsome?" she murmured.

"I…" Hermione hesitated. Then, she admitted, "Yes."

"Quite handsome?"

"Quite."

"Well, where is he?" Bellatrix demanded. "I want to meet this striping young wizard who has your heart in such a twist."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "I never said I-"

"Oh, don't bothering trying to lie to me, darling," Bellatrix interrupted. "I can see that you're besotted. You might as well have it branded on your forehead."

Hermione touched her forehead, as if she might find a tattoo there, and stared at Bellatrix. She tried to think of a fib or conversation change or…

"How did you know?" she finally said weakly.

"I know because you're just like me." Bellatrix sipped from her glass delicately. "But I'm not talking about appearance, like that wild hair or the eyes or – Lord Merlin – we even smile the same way." And she flashed her a crooked grin, which Hermione recognized as her own instantly. "I speak of the insides, darling. We tick the same way. You desire for adventure like I do, and you don't want to be held down by anything or anyone – yet here you are, trapped in this ancient mansion all dressed up with nowhere to go. And it's driving you crazy, isn't it?"

_Yes, _Satan hissed.

Hermione nodded slightly.

Her aunt considered her. "But something's changed, hasn't it?" she said quietly. "There's something you're not telling me."

She squirmed and Bellatrix's eyes lit with childish delight, another skewered smile slicking across those delicate crimson lips. "What is it?" she grilled.

"I can't say."

"Of course, not here," Bellatrix said, misunderstanding. But Hermione didn't dare correct her. "We'll talk later."

And then it was as if they hadn't spoken at all, and Bellatrix was catching up with Narcissa and telling them all exhilarating tales from her travels and recounting scandals and asking Draco how his horrendous Quidditch skills were faring. If anyone else had said this, her brother surely wouldn't have chuckled as he did now, but this was Aunty Bella and Aunty Bella always got her way.

_Were_ they alike? Hermione wondered.

Surely not. She would never buy a slave.

_But you already have one, _pointed out Madame Defarge. _That Bridget woman._

A servant scurried in just then, and behind him was a wizard that made Hermione's heart skip a beat.

Master Riddle.

Through introductions and apologies for being tardy, she tried not to stare at him too long, for Bellatrix was looking to her frequently with a knowing smile and she did not plan to tell her of their affair. It was a secret, _their _secret, and she felt strangely protective of it.

"Lady Lestrange," Master Riddle greeted from his place in Lord Malfoy's chair. No one seemed to notice the detail, and if they did, they did not say anything. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, Master Riddle. I've heard many things about you," Bellatrix said, smiling at him. "All good things, of course." And she laughed and he laughed and they were all laughing, except–

For her.

Hermione watched the way her aunt eyed Master Riddle and envy returned to her fast, souring her tongue when Bellatrix began to flirt with him. But her aunt flirted with everyone, so she shouldn't have worried.

The sensations worsened when Master Riddle flirted back.

_He's mine, _she wanted to cry out. _Only I can please him and you cannot, so don't try to because he is mine and I am his and there's nothing you can do about it!_

Oh yes, that would get her straight to Ward C in St. Mungo's. Splendid.

She checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was six o' clock. There was still thirty minutes left until lessons when she could have Master Riddle to herself again. It was petulant and childish of her to behave this way, she knew, but she couldn't very well help it either.

And when had everyone gotten up? They all seemed to be arranged about the room, looking fashionable and happy and carefree. Bellatrix and Master Riddle stood before the fireplace very closely.

What if he fancied Aunty Bella more than he fancied her?

He seemed to. The way he was looking at Bellatrix now, with a half-smile and the persuasive tone he'd used with her more than once, convinced her of this. She felt betrayed. And angry. And she wanted to throw something made of crystal or cry or yell at him or…

_Stop that, Ladybird, _Miss Pross said sharply. _Control__ yourself. You are an English lady and will act properly as such. _

_Don't forget what Master Riddle told you, _Psyche pitched in. _You're his. He doesn't want Aunty Bella._

_Throw the witch under La Guillotine!_

This option was supplied by Madame Defarge, naturally.

But before Satan could make a suggestion Hermione was distracted by Draco, who stood by the large windows looking out onto the half-lit courtyard and was gesturing for her to come over. She was surprised. What did he want with her?

"Yes, Draco?" she said warily, once she stood beside him.

"I heard Aunty Bella took you to an auction," her brother muttered. "I could've gone if I wasn't cooped up in school."

"Yes, well…"

"How was it?"

"It was…" She paused. Then, she took a deep breath and said all in a rush, "It was disgusting and quite barbaric. I don't understand why so many people take joy in seeing other human beings tormented. I hated it."

The room was very quiet.

Draco stared at her, stunned, and she looked around to see everyone else regarding her with equal shock. She went red under the mask when even Narcissa, who was on her sixth Firewhiskey and hiccupping, turned blue eyes on her.

"Is that really how you feel, Hermione?" Bellatrix said then, with a sweetly cold smile. She was giving Hermione an out, an opportunity to rectify her mistake, to laugh and say it was only a bad joke.

But then Hermione met Master Riddle's eyes and saw an indecipherable emotion in them, one that certainly was not horror or disapproval.

And she could not lie.

"Well, you're being ridiculous," her aunt said, a little tartly. "Auctions are for sport and Mudbloods are _not _human-beings. They're worse than halfbloods, the brutes that got caught between animal and god."

Hermione, who was still watching Master Riddle, thought she saw his long fingers clench his glass a little tighter. The goblet, she also noticed, was completely full.

"I understand that you're confused, darling," Bellatrix said sympathetically, coming to her and putting an affectionate hand on her arm. But her dark eyes were full of a command that seemed to stay _stand down immediately_. "They look like us, yes, but they're not the same. You can't have compassion for them, because they do not understand such an emotion and they will only abuse it. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She understood. She understood that she was in a crowd of monsters once more, heartless monsters who bid on humans and laughed to see their agony. Aunty Bella – dear, beloved Aunty Bella – suddenly revolted her. "I understand," Hermione said softly.

Bellatrix cupped her cheek. "Good."

The clock tolled. It was six-thirty.

"I apologize for having to leave so soon," Master Riddle said, and they all turned to face him. "It is quite regrettable to abandon your company, but Lady Hermione and I have a music lesson that simply cannot be rescheduled."

"Oh, of course," Bellatrix exclaimed, stepping away. Hermione's cheek burned where her aunt had touched it. "I would never impose on education, Master Riddle." And she grinned at Hermione, who struggled to smile back.

She and Master Riddle were escorted by a different servant to the music room. They walked in silence.

When they arrived inside, the servant stood in the hall as Bridget had. Master Riddle sat at the piano and without his asking, Hermione sat beside him. He began to play one of the nocturnes.

Chopin was a Muggle composer.

"Did you mean what you said back there, Hermione?" Master Riddle said. "That you understood Lady Lestrange?"

"No." She felt daring saying the simple word and looked to him anxiously, to measure his expression. But his stony features gave nothing away. "I meant what I said before that. The auction was horrifying. It was…evil."

"It is." The song he played was dark and the vibrations of the striking keys trembled through her, like small earthquakes. "And you believe Mudbloods are human?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm confused," he said lowly. She blinked at him. "How can you say any of that? You are a Pureblood, Lord Malfoy's daughter, and your family is notorious for their support of the Pureblood superiority campaign. Why wouldn't you think us beneath you?"

"Because you're not." She took a deep breath. "You're just the same as us. No better, no worse."

He smirked wryly. "What gave me away, Hermione?"

"Many things, when I thought about it," she said, trying for lightness when really her heart was pounding harder than ever. "You wear your hair natural like them, you know Muggle music and use Muggle phrases, you smoke Muggle cigarettes, and sometimes you say things that suggest you weren't raised by Purebloods." He snorted at that. "And then tonight," she continued, "you had this…look…when I said I hated the auction."

He stopped playing and his brows knitted, intense eyes studying her closely from under them. "What look?"

"I don't know how to describe it." She twisted her fingers nervously. "It just, it wasn't the same as the others – and then I knew somehow."

He was silent.

"Do you hate me?" she whispered.

"Yes." Master Riddle did not seem to hear her heart splitting in two and his fingers tapped out a scale, disjointed and erratic. "But I hate what you are… not _you, _particularly, I suppose_."_

"Oh." She said it as if she understood what he meant. But she did not.

"Will you tell anyone?" he said, seemingly calm, but on the inside she knew his heart had to be racing.

"Of course not, Master Riddle," she said quickly. "I would never tell anyone this. I mean, I… I'm still yours, aren't I?"

"Yes." Voldemort met her eyes. "You're still mine." And it was confirmed that she could be trusted, that she would tell him all now, that she was loyal and on his side.

A filthy thought ran through his head then. It came from the part of him that had lived too long to forgive and forget, and it whispered through his brain like a virus that would not go away: _But I am still going to kill you, Hermione Malfoy._

He would do it simply _because_ she was a Malfoy – and nothing could change that.

* * *

**AN: _She knows Voldemort's secret now. *_in slow-mo, Satan laughs most maliciously* So what do you think of Aunty Bella; like her, love her, hate her? Any guesses as to what new character we're meeting in the next chapter? (There was a hint in the auction...) Thank you for reading, as always, and please leave me your thoughts in a review. **

**Ok, I gtg study. ._. **

**Kisses!  
ImmortalObsession**


	9. Se Tu M'ami

**AN: Welcome back, you fine, sexy individuals. *Psyche performs suggestive yoga pose; Satan peeks on from the ninth circle* Okie dokie, so now that your hormones are all riled up (they are, right?), I want to say thanks again for reading – and super hugs for those who reviewed! As far as FAQs go: all of you guessed at least half the new character *fancyshmancy cyber award to **_**Known Anonymous**_***, yes Lord Malfoy will one day return (when you least expect it, of course!), and Dumbledore, for now, remains a mystery… Also, there are some interesting parentage conspiracy theories going around. **

**May I humbly remind, but in the chapter 3 AN I've mentioned that Narcissa is without a doubt Hermione's birthmother. So. **

**Anyway, we shall meet our special new character(s?) in this latest installation of DD and even get a peek at Master Riddle's past – and his master plan, as well… *shyeah***

**BTW, I love all your speculations. They spice up my inbox.**

* * *

_"Se tu m'ami, se sospiri_  
_Sol per me, gentil pastor,_  
_Ho dolor de' tuoi martiri,_  
_Ho diletto del tuo amor._

If you love me, if you sigh  
Only for me, dear shepherd,  
I am sorrowful for your sufferings;  
yet I delight in your love."

- Parisotti, _Se Tu M'ami_

* * *

_House of Gaunt, England_  
_thirteen years prior 1896_

"Tom, dear, get in the pantry."

"But why?" said Tom Riddle, pouting. "I don't want to go in there. It's dark and dusty and it smells like old shoes-"

"_Please. _Go in for mommy," Merope whispered, trying to usher her stubborn son into the kitchen cabinet before the officials came back. Tears ran down her face. "Yes, that's good. You're such a good boy, Tom. I love you so-"

The front door slammed and she stopped, stiffening. Her face went white and Tom began to say _what's wrong? _but his mother shushed him, putting a single finger over her lips. He smiled. This was a special game of theirs and his personal favorite. They always played it when Uncle Morfin got angry.

"_Where are you, you filthy whore?" _Tom's uncle roared across the house, followed by a loud banging and his maniac laughter._ "Come out and get what's coming to you. I won't have you tainting this name anymore, blood traitor. I'll wring your wittle Squib neck first, then roast that half breed abomination of yours on a bloody spit!"_

He hated Uncle Morfin.

There were other people shouting too, he realized. Who were they? He would have asked, but they were playing the game, which meant utter quiet and absolutely _no_ moving. Whoever gave away their hiding spot lost, and Tom was a sore loser.

His mother screamed whenever she got found.

_Stay here, _Merope mouthed. She began to shut the door and he shook his head sharply, indicating that he didn't want her to. He didn't like the dark.

His mother looked pained and darted a hasty glance toward the footsteps, which were loud and advancing. He remembered the men who had come to their door earlier. Merope had cried as they left, going toward the mansion on the other side of their hill, and she hit Uncle Morfin over the head with a frying pan when he tried to get them. Then they'd tried to leave, but the men from before had put up wards and they were stuck.

It sounded like Uncle Morfin had woken up now, anyhow.

_Please, _his mother's eyes said. They pointed in different directions. Uncle Morfin called her ugly, but he had weird eyes too, so what did he know?

Tom wanted to hurt him.

He refocused. His mother had said something; that she wanted to shut the door, but he didn't want that and he shook his head. _No._

"_It's a good hiding place, but only if the door is closed," _she hissed softly in Parseltongue.

He stared at her. She looked anxious. Slowly, he nodded.

And the door was shut on him. He heard Merope shove a chair under the knob and her retreating footsteps, nearly soundless under all the other noises. He heard shouting, the sound of furniture breaking, and he saw spells that sent green light blaring through the cracks of the door and windows. Then he could hear the footsteps going up the main stair, faster now, and he knew they were going to find his mother's best hiding place, the one she never got found in, in their bedroom inside the mattress where she had sewed in a zipper so she could slip in and out of it. She hid there when she could, but sometimes Uncle Morfin was too quick.

When Tom heard her scream, his whole body went cold.

The screams went on and on for hours. He heard _Crucio! _most of the time, followed by _Where is he? _But he never heard Merope's voice. He wanted to hear her voice, to make sure she was alive, to make sure she could make a noise other than the screaming, and he tried to get out, but the pantry door was stuck behind the chair. Then he stopped trying and sat on a cardboard box. He stared at a slat of light that peered through a crack under the door. He shook and shivered.

_You're going to get it, bitch. _

_Like that, whore? Or do you prefer it from those filthy animals? _

_Where is he? Tell me._

Tom knew who they were asking after. He knew and he tried to shut up, to quit crying so they wouldn't hear – but he was terrified.

He didn't want that man upstairs to find him.

As the screams and yelling went on, he learned that the man's name was Abraxas Malfoy. And there was another man who came in, who came downstairs and through the kitchen twice looking for him. His name was Avery Lestrange. He'd killed his father.

Tom held his breath whenever Avery Lestrange's silhouette passed by the crack in the door. He held his breath until the pantry around him turned jet-black and his heart pounded so hard he thought it might lurch right out of his chest.

He'd never seen his father.

He never would now.

He wanted to hurt the men.

He wanted to leave this stupid pantry.

Finally, it ended. There was an explosion upstairs and the stomping footsteps left their house, along with the yelling, and there was only Uncle Morfin cursing about damages and the little vermin running free somewhere. But Tom kept waiting, because he was smart. He waited and waited for hours in the pantry, until Uncle Morfin finally fell asleep in another one of his drunken stupors.

The house was silent. Tom nudged the pantry door, but it hit the chair outside and made a loud bump. Too noisy. He'd get caught if he tried again. He stilled, thinking hard. Sweating like a pig.

Frustrated, he balled his fists and yelled into them, "I want _out. _I want out, I want out, I want out!"

Suddenly, he was standing outside of the pantry.

Tom immediately shut his trap and looked around, surprised. The chair was still there and the door was shut. Nothing had changed – except for him. Was it wish magic? He'd never used it before. He wasn't supposed to be able to until he was at least nine.

He tip-toed to the main hall, but Uncle Morfin was slouched beside the door with a Firewhiskey bottle in hand. He looked like a lumpy mammoth.

Tom looked to the stair next, but it had been destroyed. There was hardly a second floor to be seen. He felt frozen, inside and out, because he knew then and he understood then that _she_ was gone for always. And the hatred that surged through was for the man snoring behind him and the officials who'd already left. And it burned. And it stung his eyes. And it _hated _from deep in his soul all the way down to the tips of his toes and the roots of his hair.

A creak of the back door, and Tom Riddle was gone like a shot.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_February of 1896_

There was a knock on the door.

Hermione jumped up and nearly tripped over the hem of her nightgown to answer it, heart beating fast at the chance to see Master Riddle again. But what was he doing here? Did he have something to tell her? He'd said they were to discuss a subject of utmost importance come tonight, but it was still another two hours until eleven o' clock.

Possibilities whirred through her head in downpours. Could it have to do with his upbringing? Was he going to reveal his mysterious past to her now that she knew he was not Pureblooded? Or was it more? What if the time had come to tell him she loved him – Muggleborn or not, she did with everything she had – and what if he was going to tell her that _he_ loved _her_? What if he did not? But he did feel for her, he did care. This she was sure of.

A fanatical possibility struck her, making her pause where her hand hovered over the crystal knob.

What if Master Riddle proposed?

_Then I would be Lady Riddle._

The thought made her grin. She composed herself, took a deep breath, and gently opened the door… And promptly deflated.

"Why don't you look cheery, my pet?" Bellatrix said with a little cackle, slipping inside and closing the door at a flick of her wand. She looked around the dim bedroom and lit the gas lamps with another swish. "What are you eying me for?" she inquired. "Did you forget that I was coming?"

"Oh, ah, no. Of course not." A bold lie.

Hermione watched her aunt sit at the vanity and peer into the mirror, pursing her red lips critically at her reflection. "But…" she began tentatively, "I may have forgotten the reason for your coming, Aunty Bella?"

"Did you now?" Bellatrix swiveled around in the chair to face her, with a little crooked smile and her head tilted to the side like a song bird's. Hermione squirmed. "I am here, my dear niece," she revealed, "because I want to know what it is you are keeping from me."

"I'm not…" At Bellatrix's arched brow, she amended, "It's nothing interesting, really."

_As if, _Psyche scoffed.

Bellatrix snorted. "Poppycock." Hermione was so high-strung that she flushed at the third syllable of the word. Her aunt's eyes – unfortunately – pounced on this. "What is it? Tell me."

"I… I-I am only besotted, like you said."

"Hm." Bellatrix's eyes evaluated her, free of makeup now and narrowed into suspicious slits. Hermione tried to appear as innocent as possible.

"I can see this won't be coming out of you easily, although I do believe your infatuation with Master Riddle has something to do with this," Bellatrix said eventually. "But you _will_ tell me, my pet. If not tonight, then tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that one…"

Hermione's heart skipped several beats.

"Well, I suppose that's it then." Bellatrix stood and she breathed a near-silent sigh of relief. Once at the door, however, her aunt stopped.

"Aunty Bella?" she said cautiously. "Is there anything else?"

"No, I suppose not." But Bellatrix sounded distant, as if she were miles rather than feet away. "I was only thinking_ if she's anything like me, she'll never tell._"

She did not know what to say to that, so she opted for silence.

"I never thought I would curse my own traits." Bellatrix danced bejeweled fingers through her riotous hair thoughtfully. Like Hermione's, it was free from pins and ribbons, a pile of unruly curls against her back. "Ah well, we will talk again tomorrow when you have gotten some rest on the way to Lady Black's estate, yes?"

"We are visiting Lady Black?"

"Oh yes, I finally convinced Cissy to let you come with me on my call." Bellatrix's eyes lit like the kindled embers of fire, dark and sparking as they flared mischievously around the manor encasing them. "I'll be damned if I have to stay in this crypt another minute, more so if we don't get some fresh air in you," her aunt muttered, grinning when Hermione fidgeted at the oath. "Until tomorrow, darling."

She kissed her on both cheeks, like a Parisian woman, and she was gone.

_At last. _

Hermione slumped against the threshold, casting another anxious glance at the clock. It was now an hour and fifty minutes until she could go see Master Riddle. They had much to discuss tonight, he had said. She was nervous. And very curious.

And deep down, crushed that a part of him hated her.

Five minutes before eleven o' clock, she was outside of the music room, knocking on the door very softly, and not a second later Master Riddle was quickly yanking her inside, muffling her startled shriek and protests by fastening his rough palm to her mouth. He looked up and down the hall swiftly, with hawk-like eyes and slanted brows, before closing the door.

Hermione wrestled free from his grip.

"Again? Was that really necessary?" she demanded, rubbing her arms where he had grabbed her and glaring at him. He didn't seem to realize this, however, having crossed the room to sort through a worn open trunk. She looked on curiously.

"You seem anxious tonight, Master Riddle."

"I don't trust your aunt," he replied. "I half-expected her to be at the door instead of you when I opened it."

"But I thought you liked her." She was surprised and – as unattractive as it was – satisfied by his statement. At his inquisitive look, she explained, "You two seemed very close tonight."

He shrugged. "Pretenses."

She was startled. "But why?"

"For the sake of appearance. First impressions are everything, aren't they?" There was a hidden meaning in this statement that she puzzled over. Master Riddle growled a curse under his breath and tossed aside something made of glass in the depths of his trunk, going deeper.

"…Well, you're very good at that, I suppose. _Pretenses_."

Master Riddle seemed to have found what he was looking for. He pulled out a long strip of cloth, one that glittered and shimmered like the onyx night. He waved her over and she came, trying to catch a peek of the trunk's contents – but he snapped it shut before she could, tapping the battered top with his wand. The clunk of a lock clicking sounded throughout the room.

She wondered what else was inside the trunk that he did not want her to see.

"This is for you," Master Riddle said from above her, lifting what she now saw was a cloak and distracting her. She blinked.

Lord Malfoy, naturally, presented her with gifts all the time – trinkets, jewelry, fragrances, antiques, and fine gowns being only a small portion of them – but when Master Riddle did it, the gesture suddenly had meaning again. And though it was only a simple cloak he presented her with, Hermione found herself smiling as if he'd purchased a continent and named it after her instead.

"Thank you, Master Riddle," she said sincerely. "It is very handsome."

"It's a magical artifact as well. It was passed down through generations of wizards, first leaving the hands of Death himself." He pinched the fabric between his fingers and she touched it too, carefully. It was softer than goose down and smooth like seal skin. Her eyes widened when she saw her hand vanish out of thin air beneath it.

"Tell me, Hermione," he said. "Have you ever heard of _the Cloak of Invisibility?"_

"Yes. From _the Tale of the Three Brothers_." She looked up, stunned. "But I thought it was only a fairytale."

"To some. But then there are others..."

"Like you?"

His eyes lifted from the cloak slowly, coming to rest on hers. She flushed. She had spoken too boldly.

But he did not chastise her, as she thought he would. Master Riddle merely looked thoughtful. "Yes, like me, Hermione." He paused. "The halfblood you have sworn yourself to."

"You… you are a halfblood, Master Riddle?" she asked softly, for she had always assumed he was entirely Muggleborn.

"Yes."

"And?"

He raised a brow. "And nothing, Hermione. What more is there?"

_Plenty more, _Psyche exclaimed. _There is everything I do not know. _

"Oh, you're so very cryptic, Master Riddle," she said with a frustrated sigh. "I never know what you really mean when you say things and I hardly know anything about you – or at least, not the truth – and whenever I _am_ close to learning some morsel of information you snatch it away with a kiss that's all too successful in distracting me. I fear I'll never really know anything more than the… the pretense."

He said nothing.

"Won't you tell me something about yourself?" she said hopefully. _Please?_

"What would you have me say?"

"Anything. Anything at all."

"And if I bore you with my tales?" he taunted.

"You won't. You are too fascinating to ever bore me." Hand-in-hand with the admittance, she felt herself suddenly suffuse in a vibrant red glow of embarrassment. But she was earnest.

Because she loved him.

_Aunty Bella was right, _Miss Pross clucked. _You're infatuated, Ladybird. _

Master Riddle pursed his lips. "One day, we can talk all you want about myself, but not now. I brought you here for a reason tonight, if you remember…"

"Of course." She tried not to let her disappointment show and she sat when he gestured to a chair, bundling her new cloak and holding it close. "What did you have to tell me?" she asked.

"Many things." Now his half-smile disappeared. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was poor conduct. It was handsome when he did it. "The truth," Master Riddle muttered. He seemed to be mostly speaking to himself. "I'll tell you the truth, even if you do not believe it. I'll tell you."

She waited patiently for him to go on.

And he did.

And she listened.

And she stared.

And stared.

"You think I'm joking," Master Riddle said when he finally finished, displeased.

"I am in shock," she corrected faintly. What for? _How?_ She couldn't comprehend it. She didn't want to. She seemed to have accidentally stumbled into an alternate universe, one where the sky moved under your feet and men wore bonnets and handsome musicians were not at all what they seemed. It was severely unsettling. "I… _what?"_

"Albus Dumbledore's rule is coming to an end," he repeated. "It is time for a new age, a new rein. The old rules do not apply anymore, Hermione. Those who cannot conform to the new world will not be able to join it."

"So what will happen to them?" she asked. "To us? Are we expected to just…to just vanish out of thin air?"

"Purebloods will adapt. Or they will die, as so many Mudbloods have already."

She stared at her hands. They were white, even ungloved. Forged by healing potions to appear beautiful and hide the ugliness within them. Pretenses.

Everything had become that, it seemed.

_Preposterous, _Miss Pross said instantly – but Madame Defarge was not so sure.

"Pretenses," she whispered to herself.

Hermione raised her head. "Why are you telling me this, Master Riddle?" she said. "I could easily report everything you've told me. Then this…this…"

"Resistance," he supplied.

"_Yes_. Exactly. This resistance would all be for naught, because Dumbledore and his followers would find you and the others and…" Her voice faded. Her bosom clenched, not letting her say the words, stealing her breath and stinging her eyes. She thought of La Guillotine swinging down another innocent's head with horror.

On Master Riddle's head.

"And what?" Master Riddle asked softly. "Kill me? Kill all the Mudbloods? There are too many of us now, even if you are too blind to see it, and our forces are only growing. I will submit no longer, Hermione. Not even for a face so lovely as yours." He leaned back.

"This is more than you can imagine," he continued. "Join me now or die with the rest."

"I… How can I choose, Master Riddle? I belong to you, but I – my _family_, I can't just…"

"I am making you choose." And he was. She could see it in him, clear as day, dark like night. He was unrelenting.

"You are cruel," she murmured.

"I am."

"You would kill me."

He did not deny it.

"But…" Her voice broke and she shut her eyes, hardly able to bear seeing him. His face tortured her now. "I am yours. How could you-?"

"How could _I?" _Master Riddle hissed, with such rage that her eyes snapped open and she jumped to see him before her, his hands on the arms of her chair, his face in hers and alight with an ire that was downright frightening. "Oh, you pose an incorrect question, little thing. You are foolish and naïve. You do not know anything. You don't know the pain and the suffering and the hunger – or perhaps you do and choose to ignore it, like your pompous father. You don't know me. You don't know what I have seen, what I have done, or how I have hated your kind for so long." His forehead touched hers. His eyes burned her own and had no mercy for the tears he saw there.

"But I want you to see, Hermione," he said quietly. "I am giving you an opportunity to do so now."

His chest heaved with fast breaths. She looked away, down at the Invisibility Cloak in her lap, now clenched in her curled fists. "I am afraid I don't know how to see."

"You're wrong. I know you can do it. Choose me. Choose this."

_Choose me._

He wanted her to do it. He was hers. She was his. She loved him. Perhaps he loved her. He must, if he was asking her this.

And love was supposedly a sweet thing, wasn't it?

"You have already seen, my Hermione." He rubbed her neck with his thumb, coaxing and soothing. "You saw the way the Mudbloods were treated at the auction and you despised it. You stood up for them tonight, for myself. You are already a supporter of this resistance, even if you do not know it. You only need to become a part of it now."

_He's right, _Psyche said.

_Think of your family, Ladybird, _Miss Pross urged. _Your station! The disgrace!_

Satan snorted. _Think of yourself._

_Another resistance sounds like a fine idea, _mused Madame Defarge. _What is the latest fashion de La Guillotine, I wonder?_

But then a new voice joined the rest of them. It was Aunty Bella's, speaking words from last night, throwing every choice into crystal-clear perspective. _You desire for adventure like I do, and you don't want to be held down by anything or anyone – yet here you are, trapped in this ancient mansion all dressed up with nowhere to go, _she'd said._ And it's driving you crazy, isn't it?_

And it was.

Yet, here was her chance to get out. To escape.

"I want to be," Hermione said with finality. "I will join you." She took Master Riddle's hand in hers and squeezed it, meeting his eyes. "What would you have me do to assist you, Master Riddle?"

"Obey me." It was a simple answer, but infinitely complex as well. His lacquered voice rang with authority. "Tell me what I desire to know and do as I say, Hermione. And if you never betray my trust, I will reward you for your loyalty."

She frowned. "Reward me?"

"Of course." He flashed her a charming grin, one that reminded her of their true first meeting at the opera house so many months ago. His smile was just as disarming then as it was now. "When I rise to power, the entirety of Great Britain will be at my disposal. All of my followers will be compensated for their efforts."

_Followers? _Hermione thought with surprise. Was that what she was to him now? A faceless supporter? One of many others? A means to an end? She could not take that, if it were true. She could never be a follower. She wanted – no, she _needed _to be more to him. So much more.

Master Riddle was watching her closely. Catching her eye, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"I'm confused," she admitted. "Why am I a follower?"

His brow furrowed. "I don't know what you mean, Hermione. What else would you be?"

"I thought I might…" she trailed softly. "I thought I might be more than that to you, Master Riddle."

He stared at her.

And his silence frightened her the most.

Seconds ticked by and Hermione despaired when she saw that his expression had turned to stone. He was not smiling, nor scowling, nor frowning nor sneering nor…anything at all. He only stared at her.

It hit her then, like a stinging slap of ice-cold water.

"I'm not, am I?" she whispered through unmoving lips. When he did not respond, she stood, too humiliated to stay there a second longer. "Excuse me, I have to leave. Goodnight-"

"Wait."

She stopped. The tightness choking her throat did not allow her to reply, and yet she stopped for him. Minutes of silence drew on like years.

Then, she heard the sound of Master Riddle rising to a stand behind her. His footsteps struck the floorboards quietly, slowly, until coming to a halt breaths away from hers. She bit her lip so fiercely she drew blood when his hands came to a rest on her shoulders.

"You can't…" he began. She heard him sigh and he rested his forehead against the back of her head, starting again. "Please don't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't give you an answer." He hesitated. "I don't… I don't know the answer."

"You are undecided?"

"Yes."

Oh. That was all, then? She turned in his hold and stared up at Master Riddle. His words had, against her will, made her feel slightly better. But she was still unsure.

"Is there someone else?"

He shook his head.

"Well then." She took a deep breath. She wiped away the drying tears making her skin sticky. "I apologize for overreacting, Master Riddle. It was most…"

He interrupted her with a kiss.

Her lips burned under his, as if his mouth was the sun and she had forgotten to bring a parasol. But she wanted the sun. She wanted to burn up under him. She wanted him to love her. She did not want him to be indecisive, she wanted him to decide. She desired the impossible.

As always.

Master Riddle withdrew. Their lips issued a soft sound of protest when they detached, peeling apart as if reluctant to let go, to part. He smoothed his thumb over her cheek, brushing away a stray curl that had plastered itself there. "I cannot even begin to understand you," he said bewilderingly.

_What isn't there to understand? _she thought, but did not say anything. She only wished that she could understand _him _better_. _Master Riddle was a mystery to her.

He seemed to shake himself – and the shadowy gentleness in his eyes was abruptly replaced by flat black irises. "Come here, Hermione. I have something I need you to do," he said, going to the closed piano and sitting down. She followed.

"Tomorrow, Lady Lestrange is going to the House of Black on a visit and you will be going with her. I presume you are already aware of this?" Hermione nodded, although she was inwardly bemused by the change of subject. Why were they discussing her aunt?

"Lady Lestrange," he continued, "is also one of England's highest bidders at the annual Mudblood auctions, and her taste for young halfbloods and severe punishments precede her. Her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, is a member of Dumbledore's Court. This makes him one of our immediate targets."

She straightened at the plural. "Targets?" she repeated. "But who else-?"

"I'll explain later," he said dismissively, waving a hand for quiet. She pressed her lips together with effort. "Now, two of our allies, Fred and George Weasley, have already sent false Patronuses requesting Rolophus's return to England immediately. Rodolphus will arrive at Dumbledore's Court tomorrow expecting to see his other colleagues there, but he will meet only Severus Snape."

"Professor Snape?" she said, shocked. But she knew Snape! Draco had been taught by the wizard for six years and always spoke highly of him - although this surely owed more to his high Potions grade than actual liking – and just last summer, the Potions Master had been promoted from Hogwarts to Dumbledore's Court directly. It was common knowledge that he was presently Dumbledore's most highly-esteemed follower.

"But what does he have to do with any of this?" she said curiously.

"Severus is a halfblood," Master Riddle answered. She blinked. "He was recruited very recently and assigned to a position in Dumbledore's Court."

"And he brings you secret information?"

"Yes." His eyes sharpened. "Now, do not interrupt me again, Hermione – or else we will be here all night."

She blushed. "Sorry."

"As I was saying, Severus will meet Rodolphus there and...eliminate him," he resumed. "The body will be disposed of in Godric's Hollow graveyard. His death won't be realized for at least another week when it occurs to Dumbledore that he hasn't heard from his little lap dog in days – but by then, the only other living Lestrange will be dead, and the other members will be weakened. Soon after, we'll infiltrate his Court."

"'The only other living Lestrange'?" she interjected, although he had told her not to interrupt and sent her a dark glower for doing so again. She continued anyway. "You mean to say, Master Riddle, that you are going to… kill Aunty Bella?"

"No."

She slumped in relief.

"You are."

"I – _what_?"

"It will be very easy," he said, casually. "No designing is required on your part, so you needn't worry. Every detail of Lady Lestrange's assassination has been prearranged. You only need to follow the plan."

"You knew that I would agree to join you," Hermione accused.

"I only hoped for it."

But his arrogant smirk said otherwise.

"Why does Aunty Bella need to be…?" She couldn't say the word. Her buffed fingernails scratched the back of her hands, fretful and raking. Master Riddle's eyes flashed with annoyance as he caught them. "Why do we need to get rid of her, too, Master Riddle?" she demanded.

"Because I have instructed you to do so." His lip curled. "Why are you questioning me?"

"Because she is my aunt. I have known her since I was a little girl-"

"She is a _vile _Pureblood," he snarled, tightening his hands around hers painfully. She gasped and he checked himself, slacking his grip. "She deserves to die for all the lives she already ended too soon. Do you know why she is such a high bidder? Why she goes to so many auctions, so frequently? Why she seems to need so many damn servants? Well?"

She shook her head.

"It is because your darling Aunty Bella is a _pedophile_," he said lowly. "She does not punish the boys she purchases. She rapes and tortures them for sport – and they die from it. All of them." He moved closer, forcing the truth on her even as she tried to wriggle away from it, to shut her eyes and close off her ears. But it was here now. Inescapable as death.

Ugly as her own truths – if not uglier.

"So what does she do then, you ask?" He pulled her head round and she looked up, eyes reopening to be greeted by his hard ones. "She buys more. She hurts more. She kills them and she goes back to another auction to start the cycle all over again."

He laughed humorlessly. "And you ask me why I need you to kill her?"

Hermione paled.

"Do not question me," he said quietly. "I always have my reasons, Hermione. It is not necessary for you to know them all." And he let her go, realigning his swirling gaze to the piano.

Hermione struggled with what he'd said, shaken. With this new image of Aunty Bella – beloved, girlish Aunty Bella – implanted in her mind. How could it be, that this motherly figure of hers was suddenly so evil, so corrupt? So _wrong? _She could not help but doubt what Master Riddle told her.

But she kept this to herself.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "I… I didn't know."

He was indifferent. "I know."

She lowered her eyes and curled around her hands, hidden in her lap so she could punish them out of view. So she could punish herself for being less than the perfect English flower everyone wanted her to be. For being less, ever.

_Harder. _Satan's command was an itchy tickle at the back of her mind. One that must be scratched. _Harder, harder, damn you-_

"Stop that." Master Riddle still played, but his eyes had migrated to her. She hardly noticed. She closed her eyes, scratching harder, feeling her skin peel and tear with a satisfaction too dark, too monstrous, too inhumane to describe-

"I said _stop!"_ he shouted.

He grabbed her bleeding hands, looking from them to her and scowling. Satan was mutinous at him for stopping her. Hermione was ashamed suddenly. She tried to get away from him, to get him to let go, but he would not. "Please," she whimpered. "Let me go. I just need to-"

"No, you don't." He brought her hands to his face and they stopped their shaking, instantly. Hermione looked away to staunch useless tears. They snaked out of the sides of her eyes anyway.

"Please do not hurt yourself," Master Riddle said, scowl fading. He searched for her eyes. "For my sake."

Slowly, she nodded. But she wasn't sure she could keep this promise.

He let her go.

Her hands receded back to her body, curling into fists. She glared at them. Master Riddle caressed her cheek with a single finger, until her eyes fluttered closed and that same finger drew down to her chin, tilting it upward. "I hate it when you do these things," he murmured.

She said nothing.

Master Riddle kissed her – and it was as if he did care whether or not she was fragile as glass or more breakable than porcelain. His tongue stroked her bottom lip, until she opened her mouth and invited him inside, invited him to taste her, to make her forget for a moment. He bent them over, pressing her back into the bench and weaving his fingers into her hair.

They did not leave the music room until long after midnight.

* * *

"Oh, aren't you so thrilled that I got you out of those petty lessons your father puts you through, my pet?" chimed Bellatrix, as she twirled around Hermione's room like a wind-up ballerina that does not ever stop. "Now we can spend the entire day together!"

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "It will be most entertaining, Aunty Bella."

Bellatrix tapped her lip with the tip of her wand and trailed around the four-poster bed, peering at the frame that hung over it. "This is dreary, isn't it?" she sniffed.

"What is?" said Hermione, turning and giving a jolt to see her aunt so close to her private stash of Muggle literature. She and Bridget locked eyes for a moment, unnerved. Hermione broke the gaze first.

"Oh, um, yes. It's been here for ages though," she said, trying to sound disinterested so to encourage a subject change. "It has a, ah, Permanent Sticking Charm…"

"Hm." Bellatrix gazed at the frame for another heart-pounding instant, before she shrugged and turned away. She nodded at Bridget. "Mudblood," she commanded. "Fetch us something to eat. I'm famished."

"Yes, Lady Lestrange." Bridget dipped a curtsy and scurried away, glancing back over her shoulder at Hermione with a small frown. The door shut quietly behind her.

"It's so taxing to pretend to have an appetite the size of a split-pea," Bellatrix said conversationally, sashaying over to Hermione where she sat at the vanity and lifting the lid of a powder case. She looked inside curiously, then dropped it back in place. "You eat half your dinner and have a single measly bite of cheesecake so as to appear delicate, when really you could eat the entire pan in the blink of an eye." She sighed. "The woes of an English lady."

"Indeed."

Bellatrix giggled, reaching over her head to the flower vase to pluck out a swollen blood red rose. She held it to her nose and inhaled gently. "Lovely," she commented, glancing up through curly black lashes and flushed petals to meet Hermione's eyes. "Don't you think?"

"Yes, it is," she said amiably. Bellatrix smiled in contentment.

"Roses are Cissy's favorite, you know. I fancy poppies though. Did you know that poppies are the death flower? It's all women's fault, naturally – Persephone just couldn't return Hades' affections, now could she?" She sunk onto the ottoman beside Hermione, folding her legs under her like a schoolgirl.

"But I can see the appreciation your mother holds for roses," the witch continued, raising her wand and snipping the long stem of the rose with a muttered spell so that it became short. She began to secure it in her hair. "It is a flower finally bloomed. Come spring, I always find it hard to believe that once so many lush petals were cinched so…tightly."

Their eyes met in the mirror. Bellatrix's narrowed slightly.

"I wonder if your petals are still cinched, my pet?" she mused and reached over, brushing Hermione's cheek with her bosom as she took another rose. She pulled back and did the same as she had with the first, breathing in its scent and shortening the flower before placing it in Hermione's own locks. Aunty Bella, Hermione knew, no longer merely spoke of flowers.

Bellatrix placed her chin on her shoulder. They were temple-to-temple, and their resemblance was striking in face of the mirror. Brown eyes stared into and out of the glass, wild hair different in color but possessing the same curl strained against its pinned bonds, and to a certain degree…both ladies radiated a dangerous power. It was an untamed spirit. It was an undiscovered beast that had remained unbeknownst to the world for centuries upon centuries.

It was feral.

"There, we could be sisters," said Bellatrix, and she smiled crookedly. Hermione's lips moved up, tentatively, in the very same grin. But then she thought of what Master Riddle said and the expression died fast.

"Sisters don't keep secrets from each other, you know," her aunt whispered.

"Aunty Bella…"

"What is it?" Bellatrix pulled back and took her by the shoulders, pouting at her. "Or can you not tell your dear aunty? I am afraid that if you do not, this will stand between us and spoil the rest of my visit. And I'd hate for that to happen, especially since I had so much fun planned for us today."

_Go on, tell her, _whispered Madame Defarge. _It will not matter at the end of the day._

She sighed. "I assume you already know it has to do with Master Riddle?" Bellatrix nodded. "Yes, well, I have been… I have…" The words were in her mind, clear as day, but her tongue wouldn't let them through. She cleared her suddenly dry throat, trying to speak.

"I see… You are looking for a polite phrasing, yes?"

She flushed.

"Hm." Bellatrix looked around them, at the shut door and open curtains allowing daylight inside, and she cast a Silencing Charm for safety measures. "It does not matter if you speak vulgarly now, my pet. I have told you more than one of my tales of such…risqué endeavors, haven't I?"

Hermione nodded.

"Exactly." Bellatrix leaned in eagerly. "Now tell me everything."

"Ahem, yes." She felt extremely uncomfortable, but attempted to go on. "You see, Master Riddle has taken an…interest…in myself as well-"

"I'll bet he has," her aunt snickered.

"-and I have been, ah, meeting with him outside of our music lessons," she said, very, very softly. Bellatrix's eyes widened in delight. "We are going to run away together."

"Truly?"

"Yes." She nodded for double confirmation, although Master Riddle had never explicitly said such things. But she was confident in this. Of course they would run away together. How could they not? After all he had told her last night and what she was to do to for his resistance this very day and thereafter... Well, their leaving was an inevitability.

"This is most exciting," Bellatrix laughed. Her laughter always reminded Hermione of crows; it cackled and took flight across the worst of humors, as if it possessed wings even. "And he deflowered you, I suppose?"

"I…"

"Oh, you naughty thing you!" Bellatrix cackled again. "I did the very same thing you did, you know. Perhaps not with someone half so interesting, but I was long impure by your age, I assure you. I only pretended on my wedding night for Rodolphus. A blood potion here, a whimper there – and suddenly I'd lost my virginity twice."

"Aunty Bella!"

"What? Men are all fools. I've never declared otherwise."

Bridget re-entered the room then, with confections and tea as requested. The handmaid skillfully set the small eating table and was about to leave them when Bellatrix said, "Mudblood, one moment."

Bridget stopped and faced them once more. "Yes, Lady Lestrange?"

"Cancel our plans for the rest of the day, as well as the carriage that was to take us to Hogsmeade," Bellatrix said and sent Hermione a sly smile, one that made her burgundy lips seem all the more vivid. Hermione's own lips turned downward. She knew that look – and it had never brought any good before.

"I would like Lady Hermione to meet my newest playthings. She has showed me that she is grown up enough to see how the purchase of a Mudblood is thoroughly enjoyed," Bellatrix announced, and Hermione froze, feeling her very blood go cold as the words Master Riddle said to her the night before came rushing back to her conscience. _Your darling Aunty Bella is a pedophile._

"Bring them to us. Quickly."

"Yes, Lady Lestrange." And Bridget was gone.

Hermione's tongue seemed to be made of cotton. She stared at her aunt, pale and dazed, her breaths alarmingly short – and it wasn't because of her corset this time round. "Aunty Bella, what did you mean by 'thoroughly enjoyed'?" she said faintly, with a hard swallow.

"I mean you do not always need a wizard for satisfaction. Master Riddle is quite handsome, but if you ever find yourself becoming a little…restless…"

"Aunty Bella, I-I must decline," she said quickly. "I appreciate the, ah, gesture but it is quite unnecessary-"

"Don't be silly," Bellatrix snapped. "If you cannot take pleasure in a simple auction, I will make sure you at least enjoy this. I allowed your brother to borrow my little darlings last night and he was very appreciative of my generosity – why can't you do the same? They're only animals."

"My brother?" she said, stunned. "But… what did Draco do to them?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be silly, he isn't a fag. Or if he is, he hasn't told me."

"Aunty Bella, please."

"Alright, alright. I believe he was brushing up on his Cruciatus Curse. Your brother has much potential, but his emotions are always getting the best of him. Like I said, he gets his temper from your father, and that makes him sloppy."

Hermione was horrified. The Cruciatus Curse? Draco – her own brother – was _torturing _those Muggleborns for… sport? For practice? For fun?

When Bellatrix's 'playthings' were brought in, her skin began to crawl as if worms and slimy insects had taken lodgings under her dress. The Muggleborns she saw less than a day ago somehow looked worse than before. Haggard. Hungry. Eerily silent.

And while both young men were better dressed now - wearing breeches, enchanted collars, and loose shirts - their marked flesh spoke volumes. Those marks were from her brother. _Her _brother. _Her_ flesh and blood.

Hermione had never really experienced anger before, but she felt an indescribable fury at Draco when she stared at the scabbing wounds and angry red welts leftover from whips. She felt ire boiling inside her for Aunty Bella, who she thought she could curse right here if she must. She took in the thin faces that housed too-sharp bones and bruised skin. The first Muggleborn had dull brown hair and dead eyes. He didn't even seem to be here in the room with them.

But the second.

The second Muggleborn was different. He met her gaze with a brilliant green one that flashed and shimmered and ferociously detested. They screamed at her. They tore into her like the hounds of hell, hating and shrieking.

Hadn't he been wearing glasses before?

_Harry Potter, _Miss Pross recalled, taking the young man in. _Fudge said his name is Harry Potter. He's one of those reckless ones. _

And he surely wanted to kill her.

She did not blame him, for if the roles were reversed, she would have those exact sinful hungers. She could save him right now, with two simple words. She could save both of these slaves at a flick of her wand-

_Wait, wait, _Madame Defarge hissed. _You have to wait until two o'clock, an hour before you and Aunty Bella leave for the Blacks. Do not ruin this, girl. Don't stray from the plan – it's a good one. _

Hermione, who had been slowly reaching for her wand, stopped as she was forced to see the logic in this statement. Yes, she must stick to the plan. Master Riddle wanted her to.

She tucked her shaking hands behind her back.

"In positions, in your positions, please," Bellatrix was saying when she refocused, waltzing around the two boys like a dog trainer. "As I taught you, remember? Ah, that's a good Mudblood, Neville weville," she crooned, to the first Muggleborn who had mechanically slid to his knees and bowed his head, empty eyes glued to the ground.

"I'm teaching them," Bellatrix explained with a fond smile, catching her eyes. She nodded and looked away, for once glad she was required to wear the mask. It hid her revulsion.

"Now Harry, why aren't you being a good Mudblood, like Neville weville?" Bellatrix simpered. The second Muggleborn, Harry, did not respond except to grunt.

"What was that?" her aunt sang, bending beside him gracefully, as if to hear better. "Does the Mudblood want to use its words, hm?"

Harry snapped his teeth at her, like a rabid dog, and Hermione jumped, a hand flying to catch her racing heart. Bellatrix merely shrieked right back at the boy, grinning playfully.

"It's cute, isn't it?" she said, straightening and tracing one long red nail down the Muggleborn's face. Harry did not flinch, but blood beaded behind Bellatrix's fingertip. "This is my rebel. But I'll break him. I eventually break them all after a few days-"

"You're a monster," Harry snarled, speaking for the first time and startling Hermione again. He wrenched himself out of Bellatrix's grip, sneering at her. She looked amused. "You all are! You're disgusting, lazy, and sadistic. And _you're _nothing but a lonely old hag." He spat and the wad hit Bellatrix directly on the chin, wiping away any traces of humor left in the witch's expression. Her dark eyes hardened.

Immediately, she slapped Harry hard across the face.

Hermione gasped and Harry hit the floor hard, right on his jaw. The harsh clack of his teeth snapped through their ears and she realized he was unable to catch himself because his hands were bound behind him by glowing cuffs. They were not connected to anything – not even to each other – but the enchantments cast on them prevented the wearer from escaping by searing their skin at the slightest resistance. Harry had already tried to escape apparently, judging by the dried blood on his wrists.

But they could only be unlocked by a spell.

"Filthy halfbreed," Bellatrix shrieked. She pulled a handkerchief from her dress and wiped away the spit from her face, angrily shoving the rag at Bridget after. Bridget was promptly dismissed, and she left speedily.

"Watch closely, Hermione," said Bellatrix fiercely, lifting her wand. "This is how you properly punish a Mudblood who has spoken out of turn…_ Crucio!"_

Pain was not bearable. There was no way to turn away from it, to try to ignore it, to switch yourself off and pretend that it was simply not there. Pain was a message sent to the brain that your body was hurt and in need of repair. Pain was raw, relentless, evil and shattering.

Pain, when it became present, was absolutely everywhere.

Hermione could hear that in Harry Potter's screams.

She turned her head away, so that she might not see the frail body twisting unnaturally and the way her aunt laughed as if she had not a shred of sanity left in her. Had Aunty Bella always been this way? Where had _she _been, where had her eyes been? How could she not know this? How could she not see it when it was so obvious now?

_Because you looked the other way. _Satan took her chin with one talon and turned her so that she saw again, so that she saw the torture going on just feet away from her. _But I will not let you look the other way any longer. You agreed to-_

_-become a part of the resistance, _Madame Defarge finished. _Master Riddle would not let you look away. That is what other Purebloods do. You are different. _

_You're his, _said Psyche.

Miss Pross nodded. _So you have to be strong._

So she had to watch this living nightmare.

"Catch your breath, Harry, because we're not through yet," Bellatrix giggled, releasing the curse and spinning around the gasping boy twice. She flitted over to the other Muggleborn – Neville – and lifted him by his hair. "You try, Hermione. Go on."

"I-I cannot."

Bellatrix sighed, annoyed. "Why ever not?"

"I… I don't want to perform the Cruciatus Curse in front of you. I am afraid I never have before and I would not like you to see me embarrass myself," she invented on whim. She bit her lip, eying Harry, who was still panting. "But if I may, could I practice with your…Mudbloods…on my own?" The term felt odd in her mouth.

Bellatrix blinked. "You desire to be alone with them?"

"Well… yes." She waited for her aunt's response anxiously. Had she laid on the lie too thick?

"Oh, my pet, this is wonderful!" A second later, however, Bellatrix looked uncertain. "But you can only have one. You are most certainly not ready to handle two at once, and I must admit, I am quite anxious to play today."

"Of course," she agreed, although she was reluctant to leave Bellatrix alone with one of the young men. She hated to choose which one to save from her aunt's spite, but Harry Potter was the clear choice of the two. Bellatrix had no limits when it came to punishment – and Harry had irritated her severely.

When she told her so, Bellatrix was displeased.

"Oh fine," she pouted, gathering her skirts and starting from the room. She snapped her fingers and Neville went after her, not rising from his knees but crawling after her like some sort of pet. Hermione's stomach turned at the sight.

"_Adieu_, Harry." Bellatrix blew a little kiss toward him. Harry managed to glare at her. "Enjoy your alone time with my niece. I envy her so very much." She winked and disappeared with a girlish giggle, shutting the door behind her at a swish of the wand.

Hermione extracted her own wand. Harry Potter stiffened, watching warily as she locked the door and cast another Silencing Charm – just to be safe – before sinking down next to him. She was too afraid that he might lash out or yell at her if she tried to touch him, so she stayed a safe distance away and waited for his frantic breaths to calm before speaking.

_Master Riddle, _Psyche reminded her. _This is for him. For both of you._

Right.

"I'm sorry on behalf of my aunt," she said at last, breaking the tense silence. "I, um, I won't hurt you…"

Harry snorted.

"No, truly," she said honestly. "I'm not like that at all." She lowered her voice. "I'm on your side actually."

"I know you're trying to get information out of me, so it won't work. I'm not an idiot and I won't talk." And with that, Harry set his jaw, stubbornly squinting at the rose print papered-wall over her shoulder.

Hermione bit her lip. What would convince him?

"Do… do you know Master Riddle?" she eventually asked. Harry acted as if she had not spoken, so she deducted that he in fact did not. She tried again. "I'm sorry that you don't believe me and I don't blame you either, but I promise I won't let Aunty Bella take you-"

"Why? So you can keep me for yourself?" the Muggleborn bit out. His vow of silence hadn't seemed to last for very long. "You're just like the rest of them."

"I am _not_," she said, an edge of sharpness to her tone. Harry didn't look impressed. "I'll prove it to you. I will help you and your friend out of here, and I'll make sure you aren't caught."

"Or you'll just double cross us and have us hauled off to Azkaban," he snapped.

"Or I won't."

She stared at him intently and his green eyes, hard and hateful, slowly flashed with a new emotion she had not before seen in them. Uncertainty.

Harry looked away, grunting. "Well, if you are telling the truth – and I'm not saying you are – then _why _the devil are you doing this? Your kind has never given a rat's… well…"

"Because someone made me see," she said quietly. "Someone made me see that things aren't right the way they are now, and I want to help make them right."

"This Master Riddle?"

"Yes. Master Riddle."

"Huh." He wriggled upright, swinging his legs around so that they were in front of him and he could awkwardly sit. She scrambled to a stand.

"Do you want a, ah, pillow?" she asked. "Or a cushion of some sort?" His position looked painful.

Harry looked at her strangely.

Hermione remembered then that he didn't trust her, sighed, and retrieved a velvet ottoman, dragging it over the floorboards and tipping it so the boy could lean back against the fabric side. "There," she said. "Lie back, please."

But Harry didn't move until she was in front of him again, and even then he lied back very slowly, keeping his forest-colored eyes on her and scowling when the enchanted cuffs sliced his skin. They sat in silence for a number of minutes. Harry, on the floor. She, perched on the stool to her vanity and fretting over her gloves nervously.

"Why do you wear that mask?" Harry suddenly asked, startling her. She blinked at him. "You going to a party or something?"

"No."

"Then why d'you wear it?"

"I… I'm required to." No, that didn't sound right. She sounded like a servant explaining their work attire.

But wasn't that very similar to her situation?

She didn't know. She had never needed to explain the purpose of the mask to anyone before.

"_You're _required to do something?" Harry scoffed. "A Pureblood?"

"Well, yes," she said, slightly insulted. "I follow rules, too, you know. They are my father's rules."

"And one of them is to wear that stupid mask?"

She glared at him.

Harry tried not to laugh, hiding his amusement with a poor cough. "Sorry. That, uh, stupid _pretty_ mask, is what I meant to say."

"You're not being very polite."

His expression darkened. "So?"

She fidgeted. "I was… I was teasing you." _And failing to do so horribly, it seems._

"Oh." He looked awkward too now, averting his eyes from her and studying the polished wood floor. "Well then."

They stewed in silence for another minute or two.

"I have to leave at two o' clock," she said, breaking the quiet first this time. Harry sunk lower where he slumped against the upturned ottoman. His black hair was extremely messy. "That's an hour away, but until then you can stay here and rest."

"Where are you going to?" he queried, ignoring the last statement.

"I am going to see Master Riddle," she said and straightened, smoothing her skirt. "And after that, I am going on a visit with Aunty Bella to the Black's residence."

He scowled at the mention of Bellatrix.

"Do you want any tea?" she said hesitantly. "Or some biscuits?"

"Yes."

She nodded and went to gather the edibles where they sat on the small eating table by the sunlit window. She was casting a Warming Charm on the cooled tea when Harry added, "Where exactly is freeing me and Neville supposed to fit into your plans anyway, huh?"

"I didn't think about that," she admitted. He snorted. "However, I think it would be best to get you away while Aunty Bella and I are on our visit, just in case…" She stopped herself. "Well, I will ask Master Riddle when I see him. He'll know."

"Who exactly is this Master Riddle?" Harry said curiously.

"Important. He is the one who convinced me to join the resistance – and he's the head of it."

"Oh, so you're part of the resistance now, are you?" he said sarcastically.

She blushed. "Yes. You are too, aren't you?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally. His suspicion of her was blatant.

Hermione kneeled in front of him, setting down the tea tray and lifting a biscuit to his mouth, then putting it back down when he glowered at her. "What?" she said, offended. "I'm not poisoning you."

"I know that, but I'd prefer to _use my hands_, if you don't mind."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, look who's not trusting who now," Harry said scathingly. "You're just a big hypocrite, aren't you?"

"That's preposterous! Of course I'm not."

"Then get me out of these things," he growled, rattling his wrists and cursing when the enchanted cuffs bit through more of his skin in reply.

"I'm not stupid," she said sharply. "You're only going to attack me if I release you."

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Sit here and drink tea like we're merry chums?"

They stared at each other.

Then, they were suddenly laughing.

The clock's bell tolled and Hermione looked up, gasping when she found it was already two o' clock. "Oh no," she said, getting to her feet and helping Harry up next. He was still snickering. "I have to go, I'm sorry. I'll make sure Master Riddle gets you out of here, alright? Here, take this." And she shoved a biscuit in his mouth, which he chewed speedily and swallowed with a bewildered expression. "I'll have Bridget take you to our servant quarters. That is where you slept last night, correct?"

He nodded.

"Good. Stay here and she'll be back for you."

"You're going to see Master Riddle now?"

"Yes, yes. I said that, remember?" she said impatiently. Master Riddle hated it when she was late, and she was in deep enough water without all this extra conversation.

"And you won't forget about me or Neville?" Harry said, staring at her intently.

Hermione paused.

"No, I won't," she said softly. "I'll make sure you get out of here, Harry."

"If you come through for this... then…" He seemed to be struggling with his words and she frowned, taking a step toward the door.

"I apologize, Harry, but I really must-"

"Thank you," he blurted. She stared at him. "If you come through and get us out of here, then thanks."

Footsteps could be heard from the next hall over. They could be a servant's – or just as easily – a Pureblood's. She realized how odd it was that she thought of her own kind as _Purebloods, _as if they were separate from her, as if she were no longer one of them.

"Don't you have to go somewhere?" Harry said, interrupting her thoughts. Her eyes widened.

"Oh, yes! Yes, you're right, I do." And she hurried away, shutting the door without a goodbye, steadying her breaths and attempting not to appear nearly as frazzled as she felt. Then she left.

Servants bowed and curtsied to her at every turn, but where they stood she no longer saw the manor's help she'd seen all her life. Instead she saw Muggleborns that were all just like Harry Potter – Muggleborns who needed a way out. Who needed their freedom.

Just like her.

Before meeting Master Riddle in the music room on the third floor, she found Bridget and she bid her to retrieve Harry Potter from her chambers, to take him to the servant quarters and bring him a meal – and as soon as Bellatrix let him be, to do the same for Neville.

"Master Riddle," Hermione exclaimed on entering the music room, out of breath and panting. "I apologize for being so late. I had to-"

"You don't have to explain yourself."

"-and then Aunty Bella brought her newest 'toys' and almost made me cast a Cruciatus on one of them, so I had to convince her to–" She stopped as his words sunk in. "I… what?"

Master Riddle faced her. A cig hung languidly from his fingers and he regarded her through smoky fumes, his intense eyes speculative. "I'm confident that you have your reasons," he said quietly.

"You are?"

"Yes." He stubbed out his cig in a crystal ashtray on the piano top, picking up something long and dark that rested beside it. It was a thin box.

A wand box.

"Is that…?" she trailed.

"It is." Master Riddle strolled forward until only inches remained between them. Inches that were filled by the length of the wand box. "I picked it up from Gregorovitch this morning in Diagon Alley. The rest is up to you." And his long spidery fingers gently pressed the buttons locking the case shut, releasing the catches so that the sleek top slowly swung open. Inside, in a rectangle of velvet, lay a 12 ¾ inch walnut wand with a dragon heartstring core and a slight bend near the top that transformed the unyielding wood into something akin to a bird's talon.

Her fingers hovered over the replica… but she knew better than to touch it.

"He works fast," she eventually said.

"He is a master of his craft." Master Riddle snapped the box shut and held a hand out for her purse, which she passed over promptly. He put the wand box inside it. "He also said the original was made by Ollivander. Have you heard of him?"

"Yes. I met him once." Her heart pounded. "When I bought my first wand."

"And you feel that you are ready for your assignment?" he said, eying her. He had not gone to school today, so instead of the Slytherin uniform of black trousers, a white shirt, green-silver tie, and robes, he wore a gentleman's suit and crisp gloves. He looked very handsome.

"Hermione?"

She blinked, recomposing herself. "I… I think I am, yes."

"But I need to have utter confidence in you," he scolded gently, sliding up a hand to cup her cheek. He touched his mouth to hers, and her heart lurched painfully in her bosom at the sensation of his soft lips. "So you cannot _think _that you are ready," he whispered. "You must _be _ready, Hermione."

"I am," she breathed. Her eyes had slipped shut. She saw Aunty Bella, gone mad and crying_ Crucio!_, inside the lids. "I'm ready for it."

"Good."

He moved slightly, lifting his chin and tucking her head underneath it. He gently traced the petals of the rose Bellatrix had placed in her hair. "Remember, my Hermione," he said. "The replica wand has been polished with an arsenic-based potion. Do your best not to touch it – and under any circumstances – do not allow it to touch your mouth. As soon as it enters Lady Lestrange's bloodstream, it will begin to poison her. As for the locket…"

"When everyone leaves for supper, I will excuse myself to the facilities and one of the servants will find me in the hall to give me it," she finished. She had recited the plan to herself for hours as she lay in bed late last night after their meeting – although there was one detail she had failed to understand.

"But Master Riddle," she asked, "what do you need the locket for? I already have plenty of gold, if you require it."

He smiled mysteriously. "Call it sentimental value."

_Sentimental value. _But what did that mean? She was desperate to know. She wanted to ask, but she held her tongue.

He sighed and they elapsed into silence, he pulling her against him once more and resuming his play with her hair. Sensuous tickles whispered from the curly strands down to her spine. She studied the satin lapel of his suit resting beside her eye closely.

"Master Riddle," she said suddenly. "I wondered why it was that you could not go there with me? Aunty Bella would all too gladly extend the invitation, I am sure."

"You're always wondering about things, aren't you?"

She smiled.

"Well, I cannot go, even if I wanted to," he finally said. "The House of Black has a very…powerful…portrait on its premises. It is of Lady Black - the first, that is - and it is enchanted to detect any non-Purebloods in the house immediately. It's impossible to go more than ten feet in the house without passing it. I would be found out within seconds."

"Oh."

She was disappointed by this – and nervous for what was to come in just an hour. But then Master Riddle gently kissed her neck, breathing in and scorching her with hot air when he exhaled. Her lips parted.

"You smell of roses," he murmured. "And the one in your hair is slipping." But his hand did not go to fix it an instead slipped down her back, along her spine and the contours of her corset. She wished that she was not trapped by so many layers of dressings.

Master Riddle seemed to be thinking very similarly, because he put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "If you were not so tightly wrapped, I would surely take you right here, Hermione."

Desire coiled low in her belly. She arched her neck. Inviting him. "I want you to."

"So do I." And he drew his tongue along a powdery blue vein curving up her throat, until he reached her jaw and lingered there. He stayed there for a moment before roughly pulling away.

"Here, take it." He gathered her fallen purse, snapping the clasp shut and handing it over without looking at her. "Lady Lestrange leaves in half an hour," he told her. "I suggest you get ready."

"Master Riddle?"

"Yes?" he said, somewhat aggressively.

Hermione took a steadying breath. "Do you recall that Lady Lestrange purchased Muggleborns at the auction yesterday evening?" He nodded. "You see, I met those Muggleborns today, and I thought that tonight, while I was visiting the Blacks with Aunty Bella, you could help them to Diagon Alley."

His brows arched and he cast her an incredulous look. "Are you attempting an escape plan?"

"I am not _attempting _the plan, Master Riddle," she said tartly. "I am going to accomplish it."

"But Diagon Alley is filled with Pureblood wizards," he reminded her. "It would be a waste to bring them there. They would only be caught again."

Hermione blinked. "Oh." She hadn't thought of that.

"What else can we do then?" she demanded. "I promised them I would help."

"Well, I am always looking for recruits… What are their names?"

"Harry Potter," she said immediately, "and the other one was Neville, but I didn't catch his surname."

"I've heard of the first. Potter's a halfblood known for failed escapes and an infamous temper, but he would make a promising member, I think." Master Riddle fingered the wand in his pocket, considering her. "Did you mention me to him?"

"I asked him if he knew you, but he said he had never heard of a Master Riddle before."

"He wouldn't. I'm just another Pureblood." He paused. "He would, however, know Lord Voldemort."

"Lord Voldemort?" she repeated.

"Yes," Master Riddle said solemnly. "I will explain later, but you must go now, Hermione. Do not be late." He paused. "And do not fail."

She held his gaze steadily. "So long as you do not fail, Master Riddle."

With that, Lady Hermione left Voldemort to his thoughts and an empty music room.

* * *

**AN: So in the next chapter, Hermione meets more new faces and tries her hand at Master Riddle's plan. Do you think she'll be able to go through with it? What did you think of Flashback!Tom and Harry Potter? Do you still love Bellatrix? Do you want to see her die? *Satan does!* (But he's the Devil so…) **

**P.S. For the next three weeks, I'll be in Guadeloupe on a language immersion program, so there won't be any updates during that time. *Miss Pross bursts into tears; Satan 'accidentally' trips Psyche off a cliff* However, during the break do sate your Victorian appetite with a lovely teaser made by **_**Voldewhore**_**. Link's on my pro-pro.**

**P.P.S. you may notice that I posted a review saying 'blehbloop'... I was just checking to make sure it worked? I didn't know I couldn't remove it after lol. *awkward***

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**** & happy summer, bitches! *let's get CRAZAY***

**Kisses!  
ImmortalObsession**


	10. The Atrium

**AN: _Welcome back, mes amis... _(Yes, my trip was amazing; thank you all for your support and love! I missed you so much!) OK, so from now on the chapters are going to be a smiiiidgen lengthier, but it's only because we're meeting multiple new characters and because action is becoming a permanent part of this fic. We're also - sadly - starting to reach our end of this fic. *sobs* **

**Thanks for the reviews and your patience. Y'all are gems.**

* * *

_London, England_  
_seven years prior 1896_

_Tonight. _

This was the word Tom told himself all through the day.

_This is the night. _This was the thought he repeated in his head as he ate in a cafeteria with seventy-nine other boys dressed in drab grey tunics. As he was marched down narrow grey hallways, shoulder-to-shoulder and single-file.

It was the mantra he quietly chanted while boys intoned the Bible reading around him, seated in a row of faceless grey, listening to the priest drone on and glaring up at him. The chapel's vibrant rose windows and stained glass made all seventy-nine of them appear even more washed out than they already were.

_I'm getting out tonight. I'm finally leaving. _He held onto it fast when visitors came and wandered through the rickety floors, browsing for boys as they browsed through the vendor's meat pies and sausage-rolls in the park. He thought it when they walked right by him. When they paused and scanned his hollow face, said _thank you _with promising smiles and moved on without once ever looking back.

He whispered it while washing the dishes, until his hands looked like pink prunes and the front of his uniform dripped soap.

He thought of nothing but it and he glowered at Mrs. Cole, hustling around their rooms and doing her daily cleaning inspection. She caught his look and blanched, averting her eyes hastily. She didn't like him. He knew it. All the boys knew it.

For all the boys were afraid of him – and rightfully so.

Mrs. Cole interrupted his thoughts by barking at Billy Stubbs, who'd had a wet dream the night before and forgot to clean his sheets. His thoughts were impure. Didn't he know that pleasuring oneself was a sin? He must read more of the Bible to cleanse his dirty mind. The other children sniggered.

Tom never laughed.

Late at night, a quarter past eleven o' clock, he climbed out of bed and slipped out the brown trunk from under his bed. It had a shoebox in it, filled with useless items that had slowly become his treasures. Among the knickknacks were a broken yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ. The Gaunt family ring - which he'd finally begun to grow into - loosely circled his thumb.

_Good riddance, little Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. _

Tom allowed himself a victorious hoot in the crisp autumn air of London, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting out. _Free. _He was free at last.

Oh, if it wasn't for that copper who found him wandering the streets after escaping Uncle Morfin and his blown-up house, then he would've never ended up in that shabby home for bastards. And as far as Tom was concerned, he had no reason to ever look back either. To have ever been there.

Straightening up, the scrappy runaway pulled back his shoulders and left behind the grey orphanage that he had been condemned to for the past six years without a second glance. He disappeared around the street corner with a brown trunk in-hand. He had a plan.

The trunk rattled with useless treasures.

* * *

_The House of Black, England_  
_February of 1896_

The carriage came to a stop outside the Black's residence. Hermione peered out the window, at a towering estate laid in the center of sprawling snowy hills and endless countryside. The country estate they were to visit was at least four stories high and composed of red-brick, with slate roofing and elaborate pediments stationed above the door. Within this grand mansion she would change her fate forever.

Gloved hands nervously clutched the purse in her lap.

"Come along, my pet," said Lady Hermione's aunt Bellatrix, rousing her from her thoughts. The groom had placed their calling cards and confirmed Lady Black's acceptance of them. They were to enter the household now. "Remember to be gracious_." _And her aunt rose, taking the chauffer's loaned hand and letting him help her to the ground. Hermione followed suit silently.

Approaching the large estate ahead, Bellatrix Lestrange thought of the-hairdresser-turned-lover Lady Black was rumored to have in Paris with dark amusement.

Hermione Malfoy thought of Master Riddle's parting words, _do not fail, _with the creeping sensation of doubt.

What if she did fail? What if she couldn't do this? What then?

_Do not bother going back, _Madame Defarge chimed in. _You'll be better off as an emigrant lined up for La Guillotine._

Ah, how comforting that darling French rebel was.

But then a butler was saving them from the merciless cold, opening the decorous front doors and welcoming them with kind scripted words she did not catch. An entire procession of servants and maids awaited them inside the main hall, dusting and polishing and scrubbing away. There seemed to be a servant for everything. One maid with orange-red hair came flitting across the black-and-white tile floors to take their cloaks and bonnets, curtsying before hurrying away again.

_Does she look forward to serving her masters for the very last time_? Hermione wondered somewhat morbidly, watching the maid as she left them. And how long had she secretly supported the resistance? Did any of the help at their own manor support the cause?

_Pretenses. _Once you saw one, the rest came to light everywhere you looked.

"If you would come with me to the parlor, ladies," a nameless butler said, folding his hands behind his back and keeping his eyes to the floor respectively. "Lady Black has been awaiting your arrival."

"And what of Lord Black?" Bellatrix inquired.

"He will return from his errands in Diagon Alley soon, I expect, Lady Lestrange."

As Bellatrix continued to fire questions at the help Hermione searched for the infamous portrait Master Riddle had told her of. It was rude to examine any articles in the room while awaiting your hostess, but she could not help herself from looking for just a short moment.

Smooth plastered walls painted beige lined the interior of the Black's manor, paired with large sash windows that sent a blinding on-slaughter of light splashing through the vestibule. Hermione was careful to keep her optimistic expression in place when her eyes at last landed on _it: _the portrait.

Lady Black I looked on from her perch in a gilded frame less than a mere dozen feet away, smiling agreeably and looking on without a word. She was quick to realign her eyes back to her aunt lest the portrait's all-seeing gaze befell her.

Suddenly, there was a shrill, ear-piercing scream.

"_Filth! Vermin! Mudbloods in my house!" _Lady Black I howled, stunning them all. Bellatrix glanced away from the butler, offering him a much-needed reprieve, and frowned at the portrait. "_Out, out, I say! Do not tarnish these floors with your cursed steps–"_

"What is this?" Bellatrix demanded. "Why does she accuse us of un-noble blood?"

"I-I-I apologize, Lady Lestrange," stammered the nameless butler, obviously just as much at a loss as she. "I have no idea why our Lady is-"

"_You dirt-blooded rat, leave my property at once! I will have you beheaded before the night is through-"_

"Oh, for the love of Lord Merlin, would someone Silence that babbling fool?" Bellatrix snapped, her heavy-lidded eyes disdainful and pouty red lip curled. "Her enchantment requires a renewal. She's obviously deranged if she thinks that _we_ are Mudbloods."

"Yes, of course, Lady Lestrange." The nameless butler called for assistance immediately, and in seconds another phalanx of footmen and maids had scurried in to attempt to calm Lady Black I, struggling to secure curtains over her shrieking person. "Come with me, ladies," he ushered, quickly taking them away. "Perhaps she mistakened one of the help as an intruder. They are all registered, but sometimes, she forgets…"

They were led then across wide sweeping floors, under ornate cornices and frescoed ceilings and glistening chandeliers. They passed more servants, who silently moved through the halls, watching out of the corners of their eyes, sending glares to their masters when they were not looking, beating rugs free of dust and skinning chickens they imagined to be Purebloods. They would skin _her _should she let them down.

The screams of Lady Black I silenced.

Bellatrix turned her head in a nearly imperceptible swivel, nearing Hermione a half-step and speaking in tones low enough that the butler ahead would not overhear them. "Lady Black," she murmured, "is very selective when choosing those whom she associates with. Be careful of what you say during our visit, Hermione. She has…ways…of turning the lives of people she does not take a liking to, to ruin."

Hermione blanched.

They arrived at a large parlor then and Bellatrix pulled away to cheerfully greet a woman dressed in evening wear, donning simple yet tasteful pearl earrings that matched the necklace circling her large neck and an amiable smile. This must be Lady Black.

"Lady Black, may I introduce you to my lovely niece, Miss Hermione Malfoy?"

Lady Black's eyes slowly left her aunt to skewer Hermione, seeing the strange mask and wilting rose in her hair – and the kind smile vanished without a trace.

Hermione went pink. About a thousand of Umbridge's rules on manners and etiquette flew through her head at that instant, bombarding her all at once. _Do not hasten to seat yourself; stand for a moment and make pleasant conversation. Do not introduce unpleasant topics, argue, or tell long stories when making a call. If you wish to secure a person's attention, do not call their name across the room, but go to them and speak quietly. Never discuss gossip; only ladies that make trouble will seek it. If necessary, use a handkerchief, but do not glance at it afterwards and be as discreet as possible. Smile. Be pleasant. Lift all those that are around you with your optimism… _

_Above all, your goal is to ensure the happiness of others and to fill their needs before your own. _

Satan did not want her to fill their needs, however.

Bellatrix and Lady Black were staring at her expectantly, waiting. Hermione remembered herself and fell into a curtsy at once, saying "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Black. Your home is so very charming – and I do hope that you are in good health."

"I am, as a matter of fact. Thank you." Lady Black examined her closely. "Why, what a beautiful curtsy you make, my darling. I imagine it took years to perfect such seamless movement."

She was testing her.

"Thank you, but it requires only practice and the will to learn the ways of a proper English lady," Hermione replied, humbly. "So that I may one day be an able wife and mother."

"And that is the most important task of all." Lady Black's smile made its grand return and she nearly sighed in relief, rising. "Why don't we chat and have tea? I have been looking forward to your visit, my dear Bella, ever since you last left us."

Bellatrix laughed delightedly. "Why am I not surprised?"

They sat. They drank tea. They discussed meaningless things, among them being the 'agreeable' weather, the Earl of Lenchester's wife and the young boys she supposedly harbored inappropriate thoughts for, a painting on the wall and how lovely color _x _looked beside color _y. _Inside, Hermione was bored to death and wished very much to be in her chambers alone with one of her Muggle books. Or Master Riddle, perhaps.

Until.

"Lady Black, I have an idea," Bellatrix exclaimed far too loudly – for Lady Black had bid a servant to bring them sherry an hour ago and the of-age ladies had already drunk far too much of it. "Why don't you show Lady Hermione your new necklace? I am sure she would appreciate the history behind it. She has an affiliation for that sort of thing."

At this, Bellatrix smiled at her niece knowingly, as if to say _Now you see how very well I know you, my pet. _Hermione returned the smile forcibly.

"An excellent suggestion. I'll return shortly," Lady Black agreed. She rose to her feet unsteadily, eyes dilated, and forgetting that she could have simply had one of the help retrieve the necklace for her.

Hermione and Bellatrix watched her wobble away.

"She is fat as a hippo, isn't she?" Bellatrix muttered once their hostess was gone, tipping down the rest of her drink and setting down the empty glass. She held alcohol better than Lady Black, and her limbs did not waver as she moved them.

"I am not an alcoholic, if that is what you are thinking, Hermione," Bellatrix said sharply, and she moved her eyes hastily.

"I was not… I do not presume that, Aunty."

"Hm." Bellatrix stared across the parlor at the elegant French doors, leading to a patio and framed by gauze curtains. She bit the edge of her finger gently in thought, then stopped the poor behavior when she realized its existence.

"I am not like your mother either," she said quietly. "I've never been anything like Cissy."

"Oh," Hermione responded, because she did not know what else to say. What _could_ she say? _Yes, you are like my mother. You are just like her in fact. _Or _You're right; you are nothing like her_. But she did not know.

She did not know her own mother.

"I always wanted a daughter," Bellatrix continued, rather nonchalantly. Hermione looked to her in surprise.

"I didn't know you wanted children," she said.

"I am incapable of bearing them."

The silence that followed was so thick it could be sliced.

Bellatrix pressed two gloved fingers to her mouth, staining the starch-white fabric with rouge, and she smiled. "I thought it was Rodolphus's fault at first, but when I tried it with the halfbloods they all produced the same results. You see, the babies just kept slipping out of me halfway through… like they couldn't find anything to hold onto. As if they'd lost their grip inside me."

Hermione's corset felt very tight. Tighter than her prickling throat. "I'm so sorry, Aunty Bella," she said softly. _Sorry for your babies. Sorry that I must put an end to the madness that has consumed you, to the madness you have put countless others through. _Slowly, she opened her purse.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. It's the fault of men. Men will always disappoint you." The witch closed her eyes. "Your father has disappointed your mother, you know."

Hermione paused. Her fingers froze around the wandbox and she looked up, frowning at her aunt. "What do you mean?"

"I mean many things." Eyes still shut, Bellatrix snapped her fingers and commanded one of the nearby servants to pour her a glass of water, so that she might recover herself. They left for the kitchens in a swirl of crisp folds and skirted uniform.

Bellatrix sighed. "Your mother is a drunk," she stated. "Her behavior is scandalous and upon my return, it has come to my attention that she's become worse since I last was here. There is a rift, as well, between Lord Malfoy and Cissy, my pet."

"What rift?" she found herself asking.

"_You_." At last, Bellatrix opened her eyes and gazed at her. "Cissy confessed to me that you ruined her marriage."

Hermione shook her head slowly. "I…I did not do anything to-"

"But you did, Hermione." Her aunt touched her cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture. "Admit it. You were born and you were born beautiful."

"I don't understand."

The witch sighed. "But don't you?"

_He didn't say a word._

_Would you include me in your whispering to the Lord, angel?_

_No. Not tonight. _No_._

_The mattress bowed as a form dipped it. _

_The scent of laudanum burned_… _fingers pulled through her loose hair gently_.

_He only stared._

_She knew he wanted to touch her. He wanted her. _

Bellatrix knew.

Perhaps she had known for a very long time.

And yet, she had failed to try to protect her niece.

Anger rushed through Hermione – but she stifled it fast.

"Aunty Bella," she said, suddenly, with a perfectly pretty smile in firm place. "What a lovely embroidery your dress has on the sleeve. May I observe it? I am studying stitching, myself."

Bellatrix looked startled, but willing. She held out her arm. "If you would like to, go ahead."

The servant returned with water and Bellatrix drank it, while Hermione ran her fingers along the pattern on a dress sleeve and traced the outline of the wand tucked inside it. She only needed to nudge it out now.

"It is very intricate," she doted. "Obviously, it was stitched by an expert hand-"

Hermione gasped in surprise when Bellatrix's wand accidentally clattered to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Aunty Bella. Here, let me-" And she moved to a stand, but her foot slipped and sent the wand sliding under the sofa out to the other side.

"You are clumsy today, aren't you?" Bellatrix disapproved.

"It appears so." Hermione blushed and hurried behind the sofa, falling to her knees like some sort of scullery maid and swiftly exchanging Bellatrix's wand for the one stashed in her purse. Her heart pounded.

"What are you doing on the floor?" her aunt snapped, poking her head over the top to watch. Hermione's face was bright pink. "Get up, before Lady Black sees you!" she hissed. "You'll have us humiliated if someone catches you like that."

"Sorry." She was careful not to let her tainted gloves touch any part of herself. She returned to her seat quickly. "Here, your wand."

Bellatrix, scowling deeply, took the replica wand and put it inside her sleeve. Hermione looked on with a dark, silent satisfaction. "What in the name of Lord Merlin is wrong with you?" her aunt grumbled. "Why didn't you just summon it?"

"I didn't think to."

She gave her an odd look.

But before anymore could be said, Lady Black arrived, and both ladies pasted on their most pleasant expressions as she glided into the room. She carried an ornately-carved wooden box and seemed steadier her on her feet. "I apologize for having taken so long," she began, "but there are many wards and enchantments in place that protect my most precious possession..."

Lady Black sat down opposite them, gingerly putting the box on the low table between them and smoothing her fingers over the surface in a neat caress. She met Hermione's eyes with a private smile. "The necklace once belonged to Salazar Slytherin, one of the great founders of Hogwarts. (Did you know Dumbledore attended Hogwarts? Yes?) Well, it is officially called _Slytherin's Locket. _I had a very hard time acquiring it."

"How intriguing," said Hermione. "And why is that, if I may ask?"

"The lady I purchased it from, Lady Hepzibah of the Smiths, is not keen to sell," Lady Black explained. "She rarely auctions any items at all, so I was very lucky to be able to obtain such a treasured antique."

_You_ _won't be lucky for long, mon amie... _Madame Defarge whispered.

_It's not right to just take the locket from her, _Miss Pross said in protest, looking stern. _You know better than this, Ladybird._

_It is for Master Riddle though, _Psyche reminded her. _He said it has sentimental value. Moreover, it does not _truly _belong to Lady Black. It belongs to Slytherin. And isn't Master Riddle a Slytherin?_

Psyche had a point.

"How fortunate," Hermione finally said.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Lady Black replied. Her hands hovered over the locks of the wooden case. "Would you like to see it, Lady Hermione? I could give you a quick peek, if you would like."

She confirmed.

Lady Black murmured a spell, which in turn unlocked the heavy wards vibrating around the case, and she lifted the lid gently. Bellatrix and Hermione leaned forward to look inside.

A locket made of pure gold, embedded with diamonds and emeralds that curved to form an elegant _S _on the gleaming surface, dazzled their eyes. A low gasp escaped Bellatrix. Lady Black hung protectively over her prize, letting them admire it and voice their compliments before greedily closing the case once more. Hermione and Bellatrix moved back.

"Mudblood, _come_. Put this away," Lady Black ordered, snapping her fingers. A maid with brown hair came forward and took the box. Hermione watched the woman walk away, knowing she would meet her again soon to possess the locket.

"Lord Black should be arriving soon," Lady Black went on. "He is probably with his colleagues at Bellinis, having brandy and cigars again. You know how men are."

They all laughed.

When Lord Black finally did come, he came to the parlor and greeted them politely. Hermione had seen the man many times before. Sometimes, at the opera Lord Malfoy annually took her to, and at other times when he visited their manor with a number of other Dumbledore followers for a visit. But she was never allowed out of her chambers when there were visitors.

A servant came in and announced supper.

Hermione drew her strength. The plan was almost complete, and so far everything had been executed correctly. Bellatrix had already used the replica wand twice to cast charms during conversation, gloved fingers rubbing the arsenic-laden wood, tucking it away before subconsciously touching her hair to fix a curl, to tap a digit against her mouth, to nibble on it in thought.

_The replica wand has been polished with an arsenic-based potion. Do your best not to touch it – and under any circumstances – do not allow it to touch your mouth. As soon as it enters Lady Lestrange's bloodstream, it will begin to poison her._

Aunty Bella would be dead by tomorrow morning.

"Excuse me," Hermione said, interrupting the entourage moving toward the dining hall with a courteous smile. Bellatrix, Lady Black, Lord Black, and even the escorting servant turned round to face her. "I hate to be a nuisance, but I must excuse myself, if I may."

Lady Black frowned. "But of course." She gestured at a nearby maid, the one with brown hair, who was elbows-deep in a marble fireplace and had to put down her scrub brush before scrambling to a stand. "You there, escort Lady Hermione to our facilities."

The maid nodded, wiping her hands clean on her apron and moving to Hermione. "Right this way, m'lady…"

Behind them, the procession resumed their trek to supper – sans one member – and Hermione said her thanks to the maid, following the woman out into the hall. They went down another two and Hermione was wondering what to say, wondering whether or not this was the maid she was to meet or simply a random one who did not know of the plan at all. What would she do then? Master Riddle had said the maid would find her…

Suddenly, the maid stopped and turned around.

Her hair was a brilliant shade of pink.

"I'm Tonks," the woman introduced, sticking out her hand, which Hermione shook awkwardly. Before she could return the greeting, however, Tonks plunged on, "So you're the newest recruit, eh? Awfully scrawny. But you did a good job of switching Lady Lestrange's wand – I had to fight back a real laugh when you got on the floor. Anyhow, I have the locket for you here." And she extracted first a golden chain from the deep pockets of her stained apron, which was closely followed by the priceless locket of Salazar Slytherin.

Gems glittered at them in the dimness of the hall and Hermione accepted the locket, thanking her and carefully tucking the surprisingly heavy object inside her purse. Master Riddle had said he wanted it for sentimental value. But what did that mean, exactly?

When this was all over, she promised herself she would ask him.

"Tonks, how did you…" She hesitated. "Ah, I mean, wasn't your hair…different before?"

"Was it?" And now Tonks changed her hair from pink to purple, then purple to coral blue and coral blue to a deep, boiling scarlet. "It was orange, too, when you first got here. But I switched it up to keep things interesting."

"You're a Metamorphmagus?"

Tonks beamed. "Born and raised." She changed her hair to a tame dirty blonde, pulling free a wand – Hermione had never seen a Mudblood in possession of a wand before – and she tapped her apron to rid it of any stains.

"Now I must be going, Lady Hermione," she said. "Once you take your leave, Moody and Remus will arrive to cast the wards that will keep Lady and Lord Black from exiting overnight – a necessary precaution, naturally, and Moody is very paranoid so – and then, you see, the wards'll be lifted by morning when Lady Lestrange is pronounced dead. Food poisoning will probably be assumed to be her undoing and the help will be blamed and sentenced to death, so it's my job to get them out of here."

Tonks started away and Hermione stared wordlessly after her, bewildered and buzzing with too many questions to count. For instance, who were Remus and Moody? She had to presume they were more members of the resistance. And how would Tonks get the help away without the Blacks seeing? It all seemed impossible suddenly.

"Oh! One more thing." Tonks whirled around several feet away, facing her once more. "When the second round of wine comes out... don'tdrink it."

She blinked, horror coursing through her. "You're poisoning the Blacks as well?"

Tonks laughed, genuinely. "Don't be silly. They don't need to be eliminated – not yet, anyway."

She was about to flounce off again, but Hermione said "Wait!" and stopped her. Tonks waited.

"Do you know…by any chance…who-" Hermione paused. "-who Lord Voldemort is?"

Suddenly, the playfulness abandoned Tonks's expression all at once. The witch's eyes went wide, her face ashen. "You dare speak his name?" she whispered.

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean? Volde-?"

"Sssh!" Tonks glanced at the empty corridor around them, then quickly returned to her side and shoved them into the shadowy perimeter unlit by gas-lamps. Hermione asked what was wrong, but it was only to be fiercely shushed again.

"How can you not know who _he _is?" Tonks said lowly. Her eyes did not sparkle as they had before, but were dead serious.

"I suppose I've never heard of him?" she offered.

"That's impossible. If you'd never heard of him, you wouldn't be here."

"What do you mean?" she said, intrigued. "And why won't you say his name?"

"It is out of respect. We call him _my Lord _or _You-Know-Who._"

"Or you could say _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, _couldn't you?"

"It's not a joke," Tonks said rather snappishly. Hermione went quiet. "You-Know-Who is the leader of our resistance. He will replace Dumbledore when we take over and lead us, restoring the correct social order to the Wizarding World. He sent me here. For Merlin's sake, he sent _you_ here. I don't understand – how can you not know who he is?"

But she did.

_He sent you here. _It dawned on her then, who Lord Voldemort was, and another pretense added itself to an ever-growing list along with her revelation. Oh, it all made terrible sense. How did she not see it? How could he keep this from her? When did he plan to tell her who he really was? Did he plan to, at all?

Master Riddle.

…was Lord Voldemort.

Tonks was one of his followers.

And, for now, she was as well.

"I must go, Lady Hermione," Tonks said, leaving her. "Stay here. Dobby will find you."

"Dobby?" she questioned, but Tonks did not turn back this time and in seconds she was alone again. Left to her thoughts.

_You are a murderer. _Satan said the terrible words with an even more terrible smirk. _When you die, you'll be underneath the ground with me. For eternity._

_Do not make this any worse than it already is, _Miss Pross pleaded. _Leave now, while you can. Confess your sins._

_Then she'll go straight to La Guillotine! _Madame Defarge snarled. _Shut your trap, or you'll get us all beheaded._

_Follow the plan. _Psyche could not find balance in the situation, so she clung to the only hope in all the world: the plan. Master Riddle's plan. _Follow the plan and don't stray from it. _

_The times are changing, _said Satan. _If you don't change with them, you won't be coming along for the ride at all. Think of yourself. You want to live, don't you?_

Miss Pross pumped her trusty Bible into the air, chin high. _Some things are more important than oneself! Like MORALS!_

Madame Defarge snorted with laughter.

"Miss? Are you Lady Hermione, miss?"

Hermione was distracted by a squeaky voice and looked down to see two gargantuan eyes peering out of a thin, dirty face at her. The face's owner happened to be a house-elf, dressed in some sort of rag and smelling of food from the kitchens. House-elves always worked the kitchens – it was a place where they would never have to be seen by their masters.

"I am," she said cautiously. "Are you Dobby?"

Dobby nodded with a wide smile. "Dobby will escort you to the facilities, miss, and help you in your mission tonight. Dobby wants to be a free elf, miss."

"I want that for you, too." She returned the house-elf's smile and, just like that, her guilt for this plot had dissipated. How could she feel guilty when she was saving someone? Saving a house-elf. Saving countless Muggleborns. Saving Master Riddle even.

She would make him see that she was worth more than a follower.

Dobby led her to the bathing room then, where she carefully disposed of her tarnished gloves and traded them for the extra pair she had brought in her purse. She smoothed back a haywire curl that had wrestled itself free from a pin. She steeled herself.

_I am worth more than a follower and I will be more than that to him, _she thought._ Or I will not be anything to Master Riddle at all. _

She touched the place where a newspaper clipping of Master Riddle - now faded and requiring another Renewal Spell – rested, just above her breast, within the confinements of her slip and corset. And she was ready.

The remainder of the visit passed like a dream. Dobby brought her to supper. She smiled and was agreeable, answering Lord Black's questions, laughing politely at Aunty Bella's stories and paying close attention when the conversation turned to discussion of Mudblood-hunting: a sport quickly augmenting in popularity, in which runaway Mudbloods were rounded up and released in an enclosed forest where Purebloods could hunt them in whatever fashion they saw suit. The contesting Mudbloods were not allowed clothes, so that they better resembled animals and the game could be more authentic.

Lord Black said he had played twice during the weekend and enjoyed it greatly. When Lord Malfoy returned from his mission in Paris, he intended to join him.

Hermione's agreeable smile turned hard on the edges.

Then the second round of beverages were brought out, and pheasant and roasted potatoes replaced their soup. Hermione was careful not to touch her drink. Nerves prickled through her as she watched the others periodically take sips from their own goblets.

Bellatrix excused herself with several apologies; she had a migraine and was feeling slightly dizzy. Perhaps she should lie down…

The witch stood and two servants came forward to escort her away, but in the next moment Bellatrix had swooned and collapsed onto the floor. Lady Black gasped. Someone fan Lady Lestrange, quickly, and call a Healer. Lord Black yawned loudly and Lady Black was affronted, embarrassed her husband had behaved so rudely and hastily crafting apologies to Hermione – but then Lord Black was face-first in his slice of pheasant, snoring loudly, and Lady Black's eyes flickered with sleep before she slid right out of her chair, landing on the ground in a heap of pearls and silk.

_Sleeping Draught. _

The servants surrounding Hermione, all at once, scattered. There was shouting and running and pieces of silver and objets d'art were snatched off mantels and shoved in bags. Maids ripped off their aprons and caps, leaving them where they dropped, and in a daze, Hermione stood and followed the screaming procession into the hall where they jetted down in masses.

She was shocked to see at least fifty house-elves marching with all of the Muggleborns, although one rather ugly house-elf was beating his fists and clinging to the portrait of Lady Black I, who screamed incessantly at the help abandoning her noble house.

"_Fools! Cowards! Get back here, you imbeciles. None of you will escape the wrath of the Noble House of Black!"_

"Come now, Kreacher," Dobby coaxed, trying to pry the ugly house-elf's knobby hands free from the gilded frame. Kreacher hissed at him while Lady Black I went on hollering death threats. "It's time to go. We don't have to stay here anymore."

"Kreacher _wants _to stay," Kreacher snarled in a ribbet-like voice that reminded Hermione of a frog suffering from strep at once. "Kreacher _will _stay with the Blacks!"

Dobby looked to Hermione helplessly. "He will not come with us."

"The hell he won't." Tonks suddenly emerged out of the streaming pattern of black and white uniforms, which was significantly smaller as more ex-servants poured out of the front doors. Her hair was bright pink once again and she was – bogglingly – wearing gentleman's trousers. "What's the problem, Kreacher?" she demanded. "You're holding us up."

"Kreacher won't go!" the stubborn house-elf croaked. He was now sobbing. "Kreacher stays with the Blacks!"

Tonks sighed. "They've brainwashed him. Help me, Lady Hermione, will you?"

"Oh, um, alright," she said, startled.

"Here, just take his other arm," Tonks instructed and counted to three, on which they both heaved the writhing house-elf off of Lady Black I – the portrait, meanwhile, was yelling shrilly into their eardrums like an enraged banshee – and Stunned him. Dobby thanked them and ushered Kreacher away, he and another house-elf named Winky dragging the house-elf's immobile form between them by the frozen arms.

"Well then, off we go," Tonks announced and grabbed Hermione's wrist, diving into the crowd. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she was shoved around, bumped, jostled and struggled past. It was a mad house.

The frigid air had dropped to single digits outside now that it was nighttime. Hermione reopened her eyes and was relieved to see a sight somewhat more orderly than the chaos she had just escaped. Groups of Muggleborns and house-elves stood amongst the snow, rubbing themselves for warmth, conversing anxiously and awaiting further instruction.

She saw a head of messy black hair in the fray.

"Harry?" Hermione murmured, half-stepping forward. She stopped when she saw Harry Potter's head turn, his green eyes covered by specs once more and sparkling at a red-haired maid that flew into his arms. They kissed passionately and she flushed, looking away from their intimate reunion – it would be wrong to intrude on them.

Tonks stepped up, putting her hands around her mouth. "ORDER, ORDER!" she boomed. No one paid her any mind, however, and she grumbled an oath, pointing her wand at her neck and casting a _Sonorus. _

"_I said shut your traps!" _

Everyone went silent.

Tonks winked at Hermione, smiling , who had failed to repossess her cloak, wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "Alright, everyone. Stay calm, stay calm. Mad-Eye Moody and Remus Lupin – yes, those wizards right there-" Tonks pointed and everyone, including Hermione, looked around to see two wizards standing side-by-side in the very back. One appeared to have a wooden leg.

"-they are here to help us. They'll cast wards to make sure your former owners (if their magically-induced sleep wares off sooner than anticipated) do not leave this property before you do. SILENCE! Thank you. Now, to make this as painless as possible I will need five neat, single-file lines with as little talking as possible. Make sure you have your belongings and that all children are with their parents or an adult. Hold hands; travelling by Portkey can get tricky…" Tonks saw Remus Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody approaching and, with a quick hand-motion, gestured for Hermione to go to them. "OK, stay in your groups – STAY IN YOUR GROUPS! – and I will come around to assign you to your designated Portkey-"

Tonks continued to shout instructions at the confused Muggleborns, and Hermione neared Remus and Mad-Eye Moody, who stopped walking when they saw her coming. She came to a halt before them.

"Lady Hermione?" the wizard with the wooden leg and a googly, electric-blue eyeball said gruffly.

She nodded meekly.

"Good meeting you." He shoved out a hand, as Tonks had done earlier, and – like earlier – she shook it awkwardly. The other wizard, who she presumed to be Remus, didn't offer her his. "Come with us, we're to take you to your carriage before setting the Muddling Wards, my lady."

"What are Muddling Wards?" she asked while they guided her away, the sound of hundreds of voices and Tonks' enhanced vocal chords fading behind them. Mad-Eye Moody chortled at this particular comment, and even Remus cracked a grin.

"Exactly what they sound like, my lady," said Mad-Eye Moody. "Until eight o'clock in the morning tomorrow, when the Blacks wake up they'll have absolutely no desire to leave their little palace. And if they do, they'll find themselves changing their minds very quickly and, well, _getting_ _muddled_."

"Oh." She found herself relieved that it was not something more dangerous.

"Here you are, my lady," Mad-Eye Moody proclaimed, stopping them at the coach. The moon was not present tonight, nor were the stars, and the dark sky above them lay blank as a newly-stretched canvas. "I'll go find your driver and you can be on your way."

"Thank you, ah, Mr. Moody," she said. He nodded and trudged away, limping as he went.

As soon as Mad-Eye Moody was out of sight, Remus turned on her.

"What the devil are you playing at here?" he barked.

Hermione jumped, frightened and stunned by the man's ferocity. He leered at her, eyes dark and hateful. A long, scaly scar rippled from his right temple all the way down to the opposite corner of his face, making his right eye slightly smaller than the other and setting his mouth in a permanent, deformed scowl. She did not know how she hadn't noticed his grisly appearance before.

"I don't know what you mean," she said tremulously. Inside the gloves, her hands started to tremble. She fisted them.

A sharp snarl ripped out of the hostile wizard's throat and she stumbled back in surprise, smacking into the hard wood back of the carriage and jostling it. "Don't try and fool me, girl," Remus snapped. "I've seen enough things to tell the good apart from the evil. And you look an awful lot like the latter."

Hermione frowned, looking down at herself, at her fine dress and elbow-length gloves and clutch. And for the first time she saw what others were seeing. She saw a teenage witch in extravagant clothes, with a flower in her hair and a masquerade mask. She saw girlishness – no, _foolishness_. Wealth.

She saw a Pureblood.

Remus glared at her out of his scarred face, growling warily. "Even if you actually weren't like those other rich brats, even if you did care about this…" He bared his teeth. "You're not ready for it. I don't understand why He recruited you, but you're not made for this. You're too soft. I'm surprised you didn't destroy this entire operation." She blinked. "You should get out of this while you can, because you're going to get hurt. You'll see things that can't be forgotten."

"Mr. Lupin…"

"Save your pithy apologies, little girl." Remus turned sharply on his foot, and stalked off. Hermione watched him go, stunned, and she was further surprised to feel a righteous anger boil under her skin at the sight of his back, and – without _any _conscious decision whatsoever – she suddenly heard her own voice call out: _"Wait just one moment!"_

There must have been something impressive in her tone, because the wizard stopped and half-turned, sneering at her. She felt her cheeks go hot under his glower – but the blush was not out of embarrassment, it was out of..._indignity_. "Firstly, my name is not 'little girl'," she said sharply. "And you're correct. I am both soft and rich. However, I'm not going anywhere. Others have gotten hurt – many others – and I'm not going to sit back and watch that happen any longer, not for the sake of saving myself. Not for anything. I'm a part of this." She took a deep breath. "I'm…sorry if you cannot find it in yourself to accept that – but quite frankly, your opinion of me really isn't my primary concern."

He stared at her.

Mad-Eye Moody and the chauffer arrived, and Lady Hermione was helped into the carriage and suddenly watching the House of Black shrink in the distance as the cobblestone road tossed and turned under their wheels, while the night swallowed all but snow-entrenching earth and pride and sorrow and vindication mixed within her, the most bittersweet of all elixirs. She closed her eyes.

In seconds she was fast asleep.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_three days later_

The funeral procession had been a morbid affair, as well as the burial. All of it passed like a dream.

Lord Malfoy was permitted by Dumbledore to return early from Paris and attend, but he did not stay for long. He did not touch Narcissa, who had lost her sister to poison and watched wordlessly as dirt was piled onto Bellatrix Lestrange's coffin. She placed a single red poppy at her sister's tomb. Draco consoled her.

Halfway through the event, Lord Malfoy pulled Hermione aside and gave her a present – a silver comb with her name engraved on the shining surface, in a box with a bow on it – and he said her aunt had loved her. He'd be returning permanently in three days' time. Dumbledore would not assign him travelling duties any longer. Then he left her to greet their guests.

Hermione looked up and found two wizards watching her.

The first was Master Riddle and he touched his lips to a glass of red wine, as he stealthily held it up her: a congratulations.

The second was her brother. He glowered at her out of bloodshot eyes and left without a word. His abrupt departure would be a scandal, surely.

_I'm sorry, Draco. _She could never say the words out loud. Not to him, she couldn't. It was family or Master Riddle. It was the past or the future. Ignorance or intelligence. Oppression or…freedom.

But it was not a hard choice to make.

Under the mask, she wept.

* * *

"I don't understand. What does Lord Malfoy have to do with any of this?"

"He is a core member of Dumbledore's Court," Master Riddle explained. "With Rodolphus and Bellatrix out of the way, we must strike him next – but not directly. Dumbledore is expecting another attack and all his followers are on-guard since the success at the Blacks. There is a columnist, Rita Skeeter, who works for the Daily Prophet and will cover the story. I need only evidence of Lord Malfoy's secret."

"But I don't know what his secret is, Master Riddle."

"You must," he persisted. "There has to be something. Everyone knows he is hiding something here in the manor."

"Everyone?" said Hermione, frowning.

"Everyone in Knockturn Alley," he amended, distracted. "We only need to weaken your father's reputation, to-"

"Destroy my family name," she finished. She sat down, heavy with so many secrets – so heavy she felt she might burst at any moment, like a water-logged grape. "But why? I understand that the Court has to be eventually eliminated so you can get to Dumbledore, but then you would have had me get rid of the Blacks too, wouldn't you? But you only gave them Sleeping Potions. Bellatrix and Rodolphus, however, had to die." She studied him. "You are keeping things from me, Master Riddle."

"It is not necessary that you know everything."

"What is necessary does not apply here," she defied, balling her fists. "I am Hermione. _Your_ Hermione, who…has affections for you. You should be able to confide in me."

"I don't have to do anything," Master Riddle spat.

"You're acting like a child."

He sneered at her. "You are nothing but a child."

His cruel words made their intended mark and Hermione flinched back, stung. Master Riddle's scowl slowly disappeared. "You ask too many questions," he said quietly. "Sometimes, I forget how sharp you are."

She took a deep breath. "You said you would tell me about yourself one day. Can that day be today?"

"No. Not yet."

Her disappointment was visible.

"Hermione, I need you not to question me," Master Riddle said, kneeling before her and taking her trembly hands in his. "Look at me." Reluctantly, she did. "I have my reasons, my Hermione. I promise."

She bit her lip. "But you will not tell me them?"

He shook his head.

"Not today, but perhaps…later?" she queried.

"Perhaps."

She smiled at him slightly – the smile was crooked and endearing – and he could not help returning it. "Go fetch the Invisibility Cloak," he bid, rising. "You are going to attend your very first meeting tonight."

"Meeting?" she said, surprised. Her eyes narrowed. "Of the resistance?"

"Yes."

"Alright." She was nervous, but also curious. And curiosity always conquered all else. "I will be back in a moment."

"No, meet me in the parlor," he said. "We'll go by Floo Network."

She nodded.

Half an hour later, she and Master Riddle were spewed out one-by-one by the yawning mouth of a marble place, and onto a vast floor. Master Riddle landed on his feet, like a graceful cat. She sprawled onto the grate and ripped her dress like a blind baby giant.

"Are you alright?" Master Riddle said in surprise, though he was biting back a smile as he helped her up. She batted his hands away.

"Yes, I'm just fine," she said waspishly. His obvious amusement at her slip grated her.

Hermione fiddled with her meddled skirts – the crinoline was ruined now – and once finished, she observed the massive hall they stood inside. Dark wood floors that might have been made of onyx rather than mahogany stretched out on all sides of the vast center, and they themselves presently stood in the center of an enormous circle of gilded fireplaces all connected to the Floo Network. Paneled wood walls and a faded blue ceiling inlaid with golden symbols finished the antiquated grandeur.

Gazing around, Hermione saw a colossal golden fountain no longer in order stood at the very end of the hall. It featured a noble-looking wizard, a beautiful witch, and three stumps where other figures must have stood before. The water in the pool beneath it had run dry.

"The Atrium," Master Riddle said by way of explanation, briskly walking in. Their footsteps clacked and echoed, making it sound as if there were a hundred people there rather than a mere two. "It was once the vestibule of the Ministry, but this place hasn't been inhabited by a soul since Dumbledore pillaged it. It's practically a graveyard now."

She smiled. "And it is your secret hideout now, my Lord?"

Ahead, Master Riddle froze mid-promenade and slowly turned, raising a single brow. "_My Lord?" _he repeated.

Her smile died fast, giving way to embarrassment. "I…I know your other followers call you that. Don't they?"

"Yes." His mouth had twisted into a frown. Voldemort took pleasure in hearing the others call him _my Lord, _but when Hermione did it, it was not… it was not the same. Because she was not the same. She was not like the others. "But you shouldn't call me that."

"Why not?" she said, confused.

He almost said _Because I don't want you to_, but stopped himself in time. That was childish. "Because you said you did not want to be a follower," he finally answered. "So you will not call me by that title."

"But if I'm not a follower, then what am I?" she pushed.

"You're…" He faltered. "You are…"

Hermione stepped close. She stared up at him and gently took his face in her gloved hands, smiling softly. Warmth radiated from her, like there was a small sun balled up inside those plain brown eyes, seeping light through her veins. "I am what?" she murmured.

"More." His brow furrowed. He searched for better words – and reverted to formality by default. "You're…. you are my Hermione, as I've said before, Lady-"

"Are you still indecisive?" she questioned. Hoping against reason. Hoping without logic. Always hoping.

"Yes."

She frowned.

"But I care for you," he said seriously, relaxing. He seemed to sink into her touch. "I care for you very much."

"I…" She could not say it with his black eyes gazing into hers. _I love you. _Not when her heart was beating so hard, so fast. Not when he was still so unsure of his feelings for her. "I care for you too," she finally whispered. Taking the easy way out.

The soft _swooshes _of more arrivals made them break apart. Hermione looked up to see two figures approaching. Master Riddle told her to stay behind him at all times, and that if they were to be pulled away from each other, to use the Invisibility Cloak now tucked inside her purse. For safety measures. She nodded.

The first wizards to arrive at the meeting were Mundungus and Kingsley, who she had not heard of before and both wore heavy black cloaks. Mundungus was apparently an infamous thief. Kingsley typically directed rescue missions. Then Tonks came, with Remus Lupin at her side and Mad-Eye Moody following close behind. Tonks had green hair the color of grass in spring and waved at her after rising from a sloppy curtsy. She waved back.

Midway through the arrivals, however, Hermione found herself looking for Harry Potter to pop out of a roaring bouquet of green flames. She saw Severus Snape sweep in in a flurry of dark cloaks and greasy hair, bending at the waist to Master Riddle before going inside.

Actually, _all_ the followers bowed to him, now that she thought of it. And after enough of them had Flooed in that she was able to realize they were all assembling a large, wide circle, curious stares began to wander over to her. Who was the girl beside their Lord? She was Pureblooded, wasn't she? That's why she has fancy clothes, innit? I know, that's Hermione Malfoy. The daughter of Lord Malfoy? But what's she doing here? Her father's in Dumbledore's Court. We should up her while we've got the chance. _He _must have something in mind for her, surely…

She tried to ignore the stares and comments, the snickers and acidic glares. Master Riddle saw how pale she'd become and he cast a sharp look about the circle, effectively silencing the derisive laughter.

But the rebels' eyes spoke volumes.

"Hermione, meet Mr. Gregorovitch," Master Riddle introduced, nodding to an old man in a raggedy coat and top hat, who had just popped out of yet another marble fireplace. Gregorovitch smiled at her with yellowed teeth. "He supplied the replica wand of Lady Lestrange and once worked alongside Dumbledore."

"Ha! That was many, many years ago, my Lord," Gregorovitch said, speaking in a thick German accent. "Before Albus turned for the worse."

"'Before'?" she repeated curiously. "Before what?"

Gregorovitch looked surprised by the inquiry and Master Riddle smirked, muttering, "I should have warned you beforehand, Mr. Gregorovitch, but Lady Hermione is very sharp. She is also prone to asking many, many questions…"

At this, Hermione sent him a sharp look, but Gregorovitch did not seem to mind her less-than-flattering description at all. The aged man gave her another lemon-colored smile. "Are you now, my lady?" he said. She blushed, embarrassed. "Well, there's no shame in wits, my dear. No shame at all." And he continued on to his place in the circle, hobbling away.

He had never answered her question.

Hermione thought over Gregorovitch's words when the meeting began, as Master Riddle called all of the gathered rebels to order and discussed their next plan of action. _Before Albus turned for the worse. _Turned for the worse? But that would imply that Dumbledore had not always been the way he is now. And did Gregorovitch mean mentally, physically, or emotionally? Or did he allude to Dumbledore's political views, to his opinions? Perhaps it was all of that. Perhaps it was none of that at all.

_Before. _

The word would not leave her alone. What was Dumbledore's 'before'? She did not know. She only knew how Dumbledore's regime began. He defeated Grindelwald, a Dark wizard that was his enemy, and he took over England directly after. He destroyed all relations between their world and the Muggle world. He created harsh laws and fitted them with harsher punishments. He was successful. He was great. He was terrible.

But had anyone ever seen him? Perhaps a long time ago. Now, however, Dumbledore never made appearances. Did Lord Malfoy see him? She had always assumed that her father did – he was Dumbledore's follower, his loyal subject, after all – but when asked after Dumbledore's state Lord Malfoy always gave vague answers. Such as, _He is well, I imagine. _

_I imagine._

He did not know truly though. Hermione pondered this.

…Lord Malfoy hid _her_ in the manor out of greed. Dumbledore hid himself in power for the sake of keeping power. Master Riddle hid his true self from her with sweet promises and – perhaps – even sweeter lies.

_Pretenses. _They were everywhere suddenly. How was she to ever see the truth?

The most formal part of the meeting had somehow reached its conclusion without her even knowing it, and Hermione lifted her head to see Master Riddle deep in conversation with Severus Snape. Snape had been Draco's Potions professor, but he now served at Dumbledore's Court as a spy. He was their third eye, the last say, the trick up their sleeve.

With Master Riddle preoccupied, she quietly slipped away.

The circle had broken and everyone presently stood conversing in small groups amongst the abandoned Atrium. She found Gregorovitch sitting on the fountain ledge, staring up at the illuminated golden figures thoughtfully.

"Excuse me, Mr. Gregorovitch, but may I join you?" she asked, giving the old man a start.

"Oh, but of course. Surely." And he straightened as much as a rusting spine would allow, gesturing to the empty space of stone beside him. She sat and they stayed there in silence for a moment, listening to the bumbling conversation around them and sound of clacking footsteps. She tried to imagine what this place might have been like sixty years ago.

"There used to be a centaur there," said Gregorovitch suddenly, pointing at the statues towering over them. "And that there was a house-elf, while that one was a – blast, er, what was it? – oh yes, yes! It was a goblin."

"Really?"

He nodded.

There was nothing more to discuss then.

The night would be out soon. Hermione did not know when Gregorovitch planned to make his exit, so she had to act while she could. She had to ask.

"Mr. Gregorovitch," she began, tentatively. "What did you mean by 'before Albus turned for the worse'?"

Gregorovitch grinned. "I was wondering when you'd ask," he said, cracking his bulging knuckles and settling into himself with a heavy sigh. It was the sigh emitted just before a great story was told. "This may surprise you, but Albus and I – although never great friends – were rather close in youth.

"As you know, he attended Hogwarts until graduating. He had a brother, Aberforth, and a sister who was a Squib. I forget her name, but she died in some tragic accident. Accidentally got hit by a spell when Grindelwald (though we called him Gell then) and Dumbledore were dueling. Grindelwald and Dumbledore were very close-"

"They were?" Hermione intervened, surprised. "But weren't they enemies?"

Gregorovitch shook his head. Then he paused. "Well, yes and no. I mean, they _were_ enemies – but they were very good friends first. Both those men had a lot of ambitions. They knew what they wanted in the world from the very start."

"What did they want?" she murmured.

"Power." Gregorovitch peered at the noble wizard statue on the fountain through cracked, skin-webby lids. "All men want power, even women do. Wizards, witches, house-elves, goblins, centaurs, giants – you name it. We all want it. Even if we do not realize it ourselves, we desire power. All of us." He jerked a little, as if awaking from a deep sleep, and his eyes opened wider than before to glimmer at her. "But I'm getting away from my story now! Sorry about that, my lady, I'm very old… yeesh…" He cleared his throat.

"Now, as I was saying, Grindelwald and Dumbledore were very close. But Dumbledore was a Light wizard and Grindelwald fancied the Dark Arts. He even got kicked out of his school for some shifty happenings that linked back to him. And in the end, the two wizards' views clashed horribly. Dumbledore's sister died when she got caught in a nasty duel between the both of them and Gregorovitch fled – he was in enough deep water without murder on his head – and then Dumbledore was left alone, with one less sibling and a new enemy."

"And that's why he hated Grindelwald?"

"…I would not say Dumbledore is a man to hate – not then, at least – and he would have surely held his sister's death against Grindelwald – but like I said, they'd been very close. Imagine, Lady Hermione, the person closest to you suddenly just upping one of your loved ones and taking off. Disappearing without a trace. You would despise them, naturally, but another part of you would be very sad, wouldn't it? And I think, Dumbledore lamented the destruction of his friendship most of all. I believe he always felt sorrow for that."

Hermione mulled over this for a moment, thinking. Finally, she said, "And what made Dumbledore, who was a Light wizard, go…?"

"Dark? Evil?" Gregorovitch guessed. She nodded. "It was the final battle between them. Took place in my homeland Germany, where Grindelwald was taking over and trying to drive out all of the Muggleborns. Grindelwald was the opposite of Dumbledore: he hated all things Muggle viciously. And Dumbledore was trying to stop him, so he went down to Germany and they fought the greatest duel in all of Wizarding history." His eyes grew glossy with memories and he was silent for a short period, lost in thought. "Well, something went wrong out on the field. Grindelwald cast a real nasty curse and Dumbledore didn't act fast enough – he was wounded already and getting weaker – and the spell hit him right in the chest. Sent him flying a good yard over even. We all thought he was as good as done after that, that Grindelwald won."

Hermione was silent, waiting with bated breath for the next piece. In fact, the entire Atrium was silent. Listening to the story.

"Then Dumbledore got up," Gregorovitch said softly. "He stood up and everyone cheered, besides themselves with joy when he finished off Grindelwald. But then… then he did something odd. He _turned on us. _He said 'Rejoice for the death of Grindelwald and come forward, Mudbloods.' But that wasn't right. Dumbledore just doesn't use words like that. '_Mudbloods.' _He said it like we were beneath him and he had a terrible smile on his face, one that gives me chills just…remembering." He shuddered. "Something. _Something_ went wrong out on that field. To this day, I don't know what spell Grindelwald used – but it hit something dark in Dumbledore. It murdered the good inside him. The Dumbledore you know now… he isn't no Dumbledore. He's just a shadow of the real one. The real Dumbledore was a good man."

"Dumbledore is evil," someone said harshly from the depths of the crowd. Several others carried up this cry. "And that's all that matters."

"Everyone is evil," Gregorovitch snapped. He met the eyes of the person who had spoken – Remus Lupin. Tonks stood beside the fierce wizard, her green hair graying with worry as she glanced back and forth between the two men. Gregorovitch sighed heavily. "But everyone is good, as well, Remus."

"And it just so happens that Dumbledore's good _died." _Remus jerked free from Tonk's hold, striding forward through the throngs until he stood feet away from them. His eyes glowed yellow, like slanted moons, and they threatened to sear Gregorovitch in half by sheer willpower. "What are you defending him for?"

"I'm not defending Dumbledore at all," Gregorovitch said calmly. "I'm only telling a story."

"Keep your stories to yourself, old man," Remus growled.

"Remus!" Tonks scolded, running up to them. "Stop this nonsense-"

"Because I am a werewolf," Remus said loudly, turning to face the entire Atrium. "I am an enemy of the people. Thus, in the name of the _great_ Albus Dumbledore-" Sniggers rippled across the hall. "-I am no more better than the dirt under your shoe there! I am as good as an animal. I should draw carriages. When I transform, my fur should be shaved off me so that it might be used for some Pureblood's-" He glanced at Hermione, who shrank under the force of a hundred glares suddenly leveled on her. "-handsome _hat_. …So I will not stand here and let you call Dumbledore 'a good man.' Not after what he's done to me, to you, to all of us. He ruined you, Gregorovitch. You used to be rich! And look at you now."

Gregorovitch tutted. This had obviously been a topic they'd argued before. "I do not need to be rich, Remus."

"But you should be able to leave your shop without one of Dumbledore's stuck-up lapdogs laughing at you," Remus fired back. "Neville should be able to see his parents, as should Harry."

"Harry?" Hermione said without meaning to. Remus glowered at her. She asked, "You know Harry Potter?"

"Yes," he said tersely.

"Is he well?"

"Yes." He was frowning at her now. "He is with his fiancé, Miss Ginny Weasley, and has been transferred to a safe house."

She was relieved. Master Riddle must have arranged Harry's lodgings. Harry Potter would be safe.

"Why do you care, Pureblood?" Remus asked, gruffly. She felt herself go red as the entire Atrium awaited her answer.

"I am a friend of Harry's," she finally responded timidly. Someone snorted. "I…I only wanted to know if he was alright."

Remus's frown deepened.

"Come on, Remus, let's go," Tonks said, taking the werewolf-wizard's hand and pulling him away. "Before He catches you starting trouble again…"

"He's a real hothead, that one," Gregorovitch said, scratching behind his hairy ear and casting a glance around at the others, who had dissolved into a mirage of layering prattles now that the show was over. "But he's a good man too. A very good man."

Hermione fiddled with her gloves, which suddenly felt suffocating and uncomfortable. She longed to take them off. She longed to be someone else. "Someone once told me that men are all disappointments," she said quietly.

"A woman in scorn, eh?"

She blinked.

"Well, whoever told you this is probably right and wrong," Gregorovitch said weightily. "But look at it like this: a woman can disappoint just as well as a man can." He pointed up. "And in the eye of God, or Lord Merlin or whomever you believe watches us from above, we're all the same."

"Is that why you're here?" she said. "To prove we're all the same?"

"Nah, I only come for the free brandy." And he clambered to his feet, tipping his hat to her with a "A jolly good night to you, my lady" before he trotted off, whistling.

Hermione grinned. There wasn't a spot of brandy in sight.

_I know what it is. _She gasped, for with a burst of clarity – she _knew_ what Lord Malfoy's secret was. It had been lying in plain sight all this time… and Gregorovitch had unknowingly just helped her to see it. To see what would destroy her father.

To see what would secure her freedom.

"There you are, Hermione," Master Riddle said from ahead and she turned in surprise. He came toward her and the crowd parted before him like the ocean drifting aside for Moses. But Master Riddle was handsomer than the devil and just as sly – certainly no prophet. "I was wondering where you'd gone off to. Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yes. Tonight was very…enlightening."

"Gregorovitch got to you then?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised." He nodded at one of the fireplaces circling them. "Are you ready to leave?" he asked, extending a hand she took without a second thought. Every gaze in the Atrium migrated to observe them.

"If you are, Master Riddle," said Hermione. "Then I'd opt to say yes."

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_the following night_

Draco dragged his feet as he walked the halls of the third floor. He reeked of his father's wine cellar and he cried like a small child in the privacy of the liquor-stacked room, sobbing and screaming until his wails banged off the walls to come right back into his pounding head. _Aunty Bella. Why did you take her? Aunty Bella, Aunty Bella. Mother, please._

But his mother was slipping from him.

The one person who truly cared, who loved him and not his sister, who he held dearest and closest of all was slipping. Spiraling into depression, into the Devil's grip. The Devil poured hard liquor into her glass.

He did not know what he would do if she left him as well.

Then there would be no one left to love him.

His father did not love him. His father only saw _her: _Lady Perfect with her ribbony hair and church mouse voice, who crocheted blankets for the poor and sat at _daddy's _feet as they once both did when they were children. It had always been a competition between them, battling for attentions. Unconscious on her part; entirely active on his.

The difference was, he lost the war the minute mother gave birth to that wench.

_Speak of the devil and she shall appear. _Ah, and there she was! strolling down the hall in a black mourning dress and wearing an emerald amulet _daddy _probably bought for ten thousand and some Galleons. Draco raised his hackles, preparing a nasty comment on her wardrobe or study habits, but he stopped when he saw Hermione knock on a door. Wasn't that the music room?

Snatching himself into the shadows, he watched silently as the door opened from the other side. Who the devil was in there? Better yet, who was Lady Perfect seeing when she should be in her room crying herself into dizzy spells? He edged closer, listening, and an annoying giggle reached his ears. He rolled his eyes.

Then he heard it.

Tom.

"…_shut the door…discuss…Hermione…" _There were only snippets of conversation, but undoubtedly his schoolmate's voice. The door closed, cutting off any other words, and Draco scrambled down to it, shoving his ear against the wood. He didn't hear a thing.

"Bloody wards," he cursed, pulling back. Anger burned his chest. How dare she? _That slut. _

First, she stole their father, and now she was to take his friends as well? And worse, she had the audacity to _laugh_ when their beloved aunt had died from a horrible Mudblood attack just a week ago? To laugh when he – _he _was beside himself with grief and their mother drank herself into stupors with spirits?

_Crucio. _The Mudbloods had writhed when he cast the curse on them. She could writhe, too.

Or…

Or he could ruin her. Yes. He could tell, he could tattle, he could knock Lady Perfect off her pedestal finally. Oh yes. Oh _yes. _

He only had to wait for the perfect moment.

* * *

**AN: Oh no, Draco, what are you up to now? _*_Satan tuts***

**So I know this chapter was quite a bit to take in, but I figured it would make up for the whole month absence thing (gah, sorry about that). Thanks for reading and please share your thoughts below... **

**Kisses,  
ImmortalObsession**


	11. And the World Went Up in Roaring Flames

**AN: Your support is just effing awesome. Quick update for the evil cliffy. Warning: shit's about to hit the fan. **

**-.-**

* * *

"Why can't you just love her?  
Why be such a monster?  
You bully from a distance.  
Your brain needs some assistance,"  
- _Escape, _Muse

* * *

_London, England_  
_seven years prior 1896_

"Hurry up, Wormtail. Move it!" Tom snapped.

Peter Pettigrew, who had all the physical characteristic of a rat and was fondly called by all the boys of their little gang 'Wormtail', barreled through the throngs of people lining the walk to catch up with them. He had earned his unbecoming nickname due to the fact he had a bad case of tapeworm – the wriggly white end of which tended to stick out his arse through the shabby holed bunks they slept in, often greeting whoever was unfortunate enough to sleep below him. He was a disgusting boy, but he was good bait, too.

"Jimmy, ten minutes in, you start a row with Chris to distract the barmaids," instructed Tom. "Wormtail and I will head up the stair to get the money while you stage the fight."

"Got it, chief," Jimmy Criggins said, spitting some tobacco he'd snitched from a passing gentleman on the street. Chris Mannet seconded this.

Tom mulled over the details in his head. Early that morning, an out-of-work potman had told them there was at least forty pounds in the upstairs room of a local pub, all of which was stashed in a case in the closet where the lady of the house kept her money. It would be quite a trick to pull to get it – but they needed the money.

The pre-teen burglars entered the pub, splitting up to their assigned stations and waiting for a signal from Tom, the leader of the team of troublemakers. Soot blackened their fingernails, leftover from the oddball jobs they sometimes took on, like sweeping chimneys or going down into the rancid sewer tunnels to stand in for a sick worker. When they could anyway.

But Tom fancied stealing.

The landlady and her daughter presently served at the bar, passing out beer mugs and a pint or two of gin. Tom read the paper, _London Times,_ while Wormtail, on the opposite end of their booth, anxiously tapped his feet against the floor.

"Those worms itching you again?" Tom asked, smirking.

Wormtail nodded vigorously, groaning in a pathetic way. "And I haven't had a bath in weeks," he whimpered.

"You're revolting." Tom folded the paper, to which their other two accomplices, Jimmy and Chris, immediately jumped up and started swinging their fists at each other in the tap-room. "Come along then," he commanded, standing. "And don't mess up, Wormtail, because no one's saving your neck this time round."

Wormtail squirmed – whether or not it was due to the writhing worms lodged in his intestines or Tom's threat, was a fact only Lord Merlin could know.

While the landlady tried to split up the brawl and her daughter ran for the policeman, Tom snuck past the bar with Wormtail hot on his tail, slinking up the stair just before the landlady's daughter returned with the constable.

"Watch the door," he barked, gliding into the room and searching for the closet they'd been told of. He found it quickly and ignored Wormtail's nervous ramblings and pitiful moans from outside the hall, diving inside the cramped space.

"_Cashbox, come," _he whispered, bundling a fistful of wish-magic in his chest and letting it soar out of him into the dim closet. There was a clank of metal hitting wood floor, and then a cash-box soared out of the confusion of dress boxes and bonnets to slap itself into his scrawny arms. "Ready!"

They split and were going back down when Tom caught a slim glimpse of the constable and ground to a halt, telling Wormtail to go back – he knew that copper down there. In fact, that copper knew all of them, and he'd know there was some sort of design here as well. Tom overheard him ask the landlady if he could search the house.

_Time for act two_.

He hurled himself into the backroom, cashbox shoved inside his zipped coat and throwing Wormtail aside from the doorway to get in. "What's wrong, chief?" the disgusting boy chittered nervously.

"There's been a change of plans," he said, ripping a hand through his fine hair and turning in place as he scoped the room. His dark eyes raked the middle-class interior for inspiration. "Copper's coming for us."

"_What_?" Wormtail cried. His asthma kicked in and he began to hyperventilate, gasping and going red in the face as he struggled for breath. Tom paid him no mind. He needed a way out. A way out, a way out…

_Got it._

Tom went to the front garret and tried to break it open, to even use a bit of wish-magic to help him out, but he was so frazzled that not even the magic would respond to him. He cursed, tossing a glare at the useless rat-faced boy wheezing on the floor. There were casualties in every war, weren't they?

"Chief, where're you g-g-goin?" sputtered Wormtail, seeing Tom's nimble body squeeze itself out of the garret window with alarm. Tom did not answer however and in the next moment, he was gone.

Outside, Tom hoisted himself onto the paneling of the building, propping his foot on the gutter and scrambling up to the roof to hide from the increasing amount of policemen pouring in. The tiles were slick with mud and he heaved a huge breath, throwing himself onto them. The roof quaked underneath on impact and there was shouting in the house beneath it. They knew where he was now.

His heart beat like a hummingbird's and he wrenched off his boots, which stuck to the mud and made too much noise for a good getaway. Getting up again, he carefully toed across the roof, then the next one and the one after that and all the rows of house roofs until he reached the end of the street. On the final house, he wrapped himself around a waterspout and shot down the pipe, squeezing his eyes shut until he touched ground. He landed in a stable yard and raced to the large shack holding horses, where he climbed up another spout to the top. He lay there for five hours straight, gasping and pulling his holey fleece over his head when it started to rain and thunder.

When he could hear the searching police no longer, Tom peered over the edge of the roof. Seeing the way clear, he braced himself and jumped down. He had just made up his mind to run to the street when the stable man emerged from his house. The stable man halted at the sight of a little pale boy with dirt-smeared, hollowed cheeks and a bulging jacket in his yard, stunned.

"Here he is!" he hollered then, starting toward him. "I found 'im, I found the thief!"

With shaky fingers, Tom reached for his pocket and wrung out a jemmy. The stable man grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and Tom unleashed the blade, whipping it out of hiding and slashing the Muggle across the face with it. The stable man screamed and let go, falling.

There was blood on Tom's hands. He wiped it on the grass, tearing up a bundle of blades in the process and getting dirt under his nails. His teeth were chattering. The shouts of the nearing policemen cried through his ears like wailing sirens. The door to the stable man's house was ajar and Tom fled through it, streaking through the house without pause, to come out on the opposite side to a street. He recognized it, thankfully. He was in Piccadilly and he attempted to recompose himself, melting into the crowd like quicksand.

As Tom walked, he shoved his hands in his pockets, shaking. It was better that he'd lost his mates, he told himself. It was better to be alone. The money would last longer this way – and there was a lot a ten-year old boy could do with forty pounds.

But he knew better than to buy toys, than to waste what he had on childish playthings. Tom was sensible. He didn't need anybody or anything.

All he needed was himself.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_March of 1896_

Lord Malfoy had returned several days ago.

Narcissa was never seen without a glass of Firewhiskey in-hand.

Draco sent Hermione amiable smiles in the hall, bowing his head to her without a word. He was excused from school for six weeks to mourn. He was exceedingly pleasant.

It was... odd.

Hermione did not question her brother's sudden agreeableness too much, however, for she wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. Perhaps Aunty Bella's death had altered him? It was possible. And then being kind, also, could have been his way of coping…

It was unlikely.

She'd thought over her theory of Lord Malfoy's secret and was now certain she'd gotten it right. She would tell Master Riddle it tonight when she met him in the music room and they would then be able to proceed to the next step of his plan. She did not know what his plan was, of course, but this made her all the more curious about it.

Contemplating this, she found she was still surprised that so many people seemed to know of her father's secret – she was not aware of its existence until quite recently, so how could strangers not even slightly affiliated with Lord Malfoy know when his own daughter did not?

A memory had told her the secret, however. It came in the Atrium after Gregorovitch told her his tale and left. She had been very little, nearly eight years old, when the occurrence had taken place.

_There were many men. They were Lord Malfoy's colleagues, she was told by Bridget, and they were visiting. _

_Lord Malfoy had requested Hermione's presence in the recreation room, where he and his colleagues always retired to for brandy and cigars after supper when they came on call. No one was usually allowed inside, but his angel was too little to understand what was going on, so what was the harm in having her? __Hermione saw Lord Black, who greeted her merrily, and then there was Lord Lestrange, who swung her into his arms and gave his niece a peck on the cheek. Lord Malfoy irritably told him to set her down and the jolly man did, laughing._

_Hermione read a book and sat on her father's knee, burrowed deep in her story and the comforting swaths of a warm blanket. There were about a dozen other men in the room, including Lord Carrow, Lord Crabbe, Lord Goyle, and more men whose names she did not recall. Lord Malfoy bid Bridget to fetch them something and Hermione glanced away from the pages out of curiosity, watching her handmaid draw back a curtain on the wall to reveal a hidden vault. She turned a dial, entering the code._

_Turn to the right twice. The left once. Then right, then left, then right thrice and halfway in-between. _

_She made a song out of it, humming the notes and singing the words inside her head._

_Bridget opened the vault and the men eagerly leaned forward in their chairs, stubbing their cigars out for something much stronger, much better…_

The door opened.

Hermione's eyes flew open where she lay in bed, frozen under her sheets and duvet. Fear coursed through her, hot and tangible like liquid silver. A bubble of dread swelled in her throat, stealing her voice. She saw nothing in the blackness.

"Angel?" Lord Malfoy murmured.

_Maybe if you are silent, he'll go away,_ whispered Psyche. Miss Pross disagreed.

_No, no, that will only encourage him to come in, _the English governess argued. _You must make yourself known, Ladybird. Quickly now._

_Slit his throat when he is close enough. _Satan slid into a predatory couch when her father sat on the foot of the bed, putting his hand on her blanketed form. The hand rubbed gentle circles over her leg. She fought back a shudder. Madame Defarge drew a knife.

_Peace, _Psyche said. _Search for peace. Listen to our voices. Think of Master Riddle, of freedom. It is so very close now..._

Master Riddle? She had forgotten about him, for one brief instant. Master Riddle would be awaiting her, wondering why she was absent, and he might come to her chambers looking for her. Then all would be ruined. Lord Malfoy would banish him from the grounds, surely, and she'd never see him again.

This was enough to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. To silence the white noise. To calm her pounding heart.

"Daddy?" she said, stirring as if she had just awaken, and the hand creeping over the swell of her hip snatched back. "What is it?"

"Nothing, angel. I was only tucking you in." Lord Malfoy's words were a silky lie and he stood, sending her a warm smile. She pulled the quilt up above her mouth so that she would not have to return it. "Goodnight. Sweet dreams."

"Goodnight, daddy."

She watched him go. Lord Malfoy shut the door quietly behind him and his footsteps were quick as they receded down the hall.

_Thank the gods,_ Psyche huffed.

Hermione agreed and felt that now, more than ever, she needed to wrestle free from the manor. Especially since Lord Malfoy would no longer be leaving for calls. She would have to be on-guard again, to deny herself sleep so that she might protect herself from her father. So that she could escape with Master Riddle – with Voldemort to the new world.

* * *

Hermione was deep in the mind of the enigma that is Mr. Darcy when a knock on the door startled her. _Pride & Prejudice_ tumbled right to the floor in her fright.

"One moment," she called. She hurried to retrieve the book and mount her bed, where she went to the enchanted frame hanging above it and cast _Cacher_. She stored her secret possession inside it, along with a number of others. She jumped to the floor in a most unladylike fashion Umbridge surely would have had her Kissed by the Dementors for.

"W-who is it?" Her fingers moved too fast and she missed the mark for a knot twice as she quickly tried to tie on the mask. _Blast. _"I said, who-"

"Master Riddle."

She stopped attempting to secure the mask and let it drop to the floor, a useless lacy thing. She drew her wand and flicked it. The curtains drew shut, stealing refreshing daylight from the room and plunging it into semi-darkness. She cast a Silencing Ward before opening the door.

"What are you doing here?" she said in hush, glancing around him to examine the hall. It was empty. "Did something go wrong?"

Master Riddle moved past her, prying her hand from the crystal knob and shutting the door behind him. He flicked his wrist and the bolt swung into place.

"Why are you-?"

"I wanted to see you," he interrupted in a murmur, catching her chin in his long fingers and pulling her in for a kiss. She struggled for a moment, but then his arms came around her and she gave in with a resigned sigh, parting her lips when he nibbled them. Their kiss deepened.

She had not realized how much she'd missed this until now. How much she missed being with him – _truly_ being with him.

"I will have to somehow figure out how to free you from your bonds," he said into her mouth with a broad smirk, tugging at her garments without success. She laughed when he scowled, frustrated. "How do I get you out anyway?"

A daring spark lit through her. On impulse, she moved her mouth to his ear and whispered "By _magic, _Master Riddle_._"

"Is that so?" He drew back, laughing softly. "I must keep that in mind. However…"

"However what?"

The playful glint in his eye was dashed. He released her reluctantly, to take his wand from a pocket. "However, there is business to tend to."

"Oh," she said, disappointed. "What is it then?"

"There has been a change of plans. I just received word that the date of Lord Malfoy's call has changed from next week to today. Dumbledore's followers will be here in less than an hour's time."

"But that ruins everything," she said, horrified. "We weren't supposed to have to break into the vault until another seven days. How will we-?"

"We'll simply have to do it today." Master Riddle traced his wand in contemplation, weighing their options. "After Lord Malfoy and his colleagues dine for supper they go to the recreation room, correct?"

"Yes."

"And that's where the vault is?"

"Yes."

He eyed her shrewdly. "And you're positive that you know the code?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "Although… it is possible that it could have been changed since I saw it last."

"I don't fancy relying on chance," Master Riddle muttered, "but we don't have any other choices right now." He raked a hand through his dark hair, upsetting the natural waves. "We will go there for the evidence while they are dining. Your handmaid can give you the key?"

"Well, Bridget doesn't know about this." At his sharp look, she hurried to say, "But there's someone else who can help me. Jamie."

"I don't know any Jamie."

"She's little. She won't make any trouble."

He nodded. "Well enough." Crossing the room to peer out of the drapes at the courtyard below, he said, "You'd better call her here now, before they arrive. I can't go through the manor – supposedly, I am in Diagon Alley getting robe fittings," he said drily.

Hermione raised a brow, although she was secretly amused. "And what is my handmaid to think when she sees you still here?"

Master Riddle shrugged. "She won't." And he waved his wand gently, disappearing in a shimmer of air.

A Disenchantment Charm.

"How clever you are, Master Riddle," she laughed. His soft chuckles followed her as she stepped into the hall.

Hermione soon found a maid carrying Narcissa's laundry at the other end of the corridor and waved her over. The maid started in surprise, put down her basket, and hurried forward. "Please tell Jamie to come to my chambers," said Hermione. "I require her assistance."

"Yes, my lady," the maid replied dolefully, bouncing into and out of a curtsy like a Cuckoo clock. "Right away."

When Jamie arrived the girl looked to be a mixture of stunned and excited, and her splitting red hair was about an inch longer. When she spoke, Hermione saw that her English had improved since she saw her last.

"Hullo, my lady," Jamie said, enunciating each syllable pointedly and rocking from the balls of her feet to the tips of her toes as she gazed up at her. She had seemed to forgotten the rule restricting eye contact between Muggleborns and Purebloods – but so had Hermione, in circumspect. "You summoned me?"

"Yes, Jamie." She bent down close, whispering. "I need you to retrieve the key to the recreation room. I wish to go there – but you mustn't tell anyone what you're doing. Can you do this for me?"

"Of course, my lady." Jamie grinned. "I'll be back in a flash." And she ran off, pigtails swinging, her apron whipping around her trim waist like a white flag.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and slumped against the doorway, tucking back a wild strand of hair behind her ear. And it was then that she realized there were no strings to catch her fingers in, nor was there a black outline framing her vision.

She had forgotten to put on the mask.

_No wonder the maid looked so frightened, _she thought with a small laugh, running her hands over her face and grinning. _She must have thought I was some sort of apparition. _And she laughed again, feeling freer and freer with each passing second. Tonight, she and Master Riddle would leave the manor forever.

Tonight.

* * *

At five-thirty in the evening, promptly, Hermione and Master Riddle left the chambers.

Down below on the first floor, Lord Malfoy, Narcissa, Draco, and Dumbledore's followers ate supper. Hermione donned the Invisibility Cloak over her winter one and walking boots, while Master Riddle followed close behind. He was veiled by a Disenchantment Charm. He Silenced their footsteps.

It was strange to walk through the halls she'd known all her life, with the knowledge that this would be the last time she ever walked them, Hermione thought morbidly.

"Here," she said, pulling off the Cloak and facing Master Riddle. He was visible once more and he took the Cloak from her, stowing it in the satchel he'd brought. The corridor around them was uninhabited. "The key?" she requested.

He passed it to her.

Hermione flipped the brass key and pushed the top into the lock, pausing when she felt Master Riddle at her back. He touched her neck with his lips gently. "You are a most lovely accomplice," he said, smirking. "I had no idea a lady could ever commit crime."

She blushed. "Neither did I, Master Riddle."

She twisted – and the door to the recreation room creaked open before them.

_No going back, _Miss Pross reminded her, nervous and scared at just the sight of this forbidden place. It was the men's realm. Hermione, herself, had only been allowed inside when she was very little, although that all ended when she became old enough to learn to listen to her father's conversations.

Then this place became forbidden to her, too.

"Ladies first," said Master Riddle.

She entered, with him close behind and closing the door soundlessly. Her breathing was shallow. Her heart hammered. There was a flush on her cheeks.

"Where is it?" he inquired.

Trembling, she lifted her hand and pointed at the opposite corner of the room, past the lining bookcases and lamps and crystal ashtray, to a seemingly out of place curtain in the middle of the far wall. "Behind the drape there," she said softly.

Master Riddle went to it, drawing back the curtain and emitting a quiet, satisfied sigh at the sight of the vault. It was silver and square – hardly jutting out of the wall it was built into. And yet, behind it lay an entire other room of mysterious contents. He looked back at her, his victorious grin turning into a frown to see her so far away. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. He raised a brow at the blatant lie and she looked down at her hands, clenching them into fists. "I… I'm afraid, Master Riddle," she admitted.

"Afraid? Of what?"

She fidgeted. "Of being caught. What if someone finds us in here? What if they find out about the meetings, about the resistance, about every-?"

"Hermione."

Her name. Master Riddle said her name in such a way – such a tender, intimate, gentle way – that she looked up without a thought, meeting his eyes and seeing a thousand words inside them. He gestured for her to come. She sighed and did so.

"We will not be found out," he said, catching her cheek and cupping it. "I won't allow it to happen."

"But… but I'm worried that-"

"You don't need to worry. Leave that part to me." He kissed her. His lips closed around her bottom one, smooth and sweet and sensuous. His fingers sank into her hair, threatening to undo the neat bun Bridget had made and calming her. "Don't forget whom you are doing this for, Hermione."

Ever so slightly, she nodded.

Master Riddle kissed her once more and pulled back, guiding her to the vault's combination lock. She put her hand to it and sang a snippet of a song under her breath, tentatively beginning. "_Turn right twice. Turn left once. Then right, then left, then right thrice and halfway in-between..."_

The world seemed to turn to slow-motion as she grasped the handle to the vault and pulled downward…

It did not budge.

"Try again," said Master Riddle, nodding at the combination. She sent him an anxious look and did, being extra careful to twist where she should.

The handle still did not budge.

Master Riddle swore.

"I don't understand," she breathed, snatching her hand back as if the handle had burned her and backing away. "That should have been it. It should have opened."

"Well, it didn't," Master Riddle snapped. He seemed to be more angry at the situation rather than her - or so she liked to think. He cursed again, more explicitly, and dangerous green sparks burst out of the end of his white wand. Hermione gave a start to see him so enraged. "Lord Malfoy must have changed the blasted code."

"I-I-I can find out what it is somehow. I-I-I just need time-"

"We don't _have _any more time." He began to pace, slashing back and forth across the room in aggravated strides. "Don't you understand? It has to be today, when all of Dumbledore's followers are here. Otherwise, the secret hardly means anything – we have to discredit _all_ of Dumbledore's Court. Not just your bloody father."

"I, um, I-" But she couldn't think of anything. Frustrated tears blurred her vision and she blinked, forcing them back. No, this was not the time to cry. All was not lost. She just had to _think_.

_Run, _Satan offered. Madame Defarge seconded this.

_No, Ladybird can't run! _Miss Pross argued._ Not now, not when there's so much at risk-_

_Get Jamie_. Psyche had devised the idea, the solution. _Lord Malfoy must have had her open the vault at least once, _she pointed out. _She'll know the code. _

Yes. Jamie would know.

"Excuse me, Master Riddle," said Hermione breathlessly, gathering her skirts and dashing out the door. He hardly noticed her go.

She flew down the halls fast, searching for a little red-haired maid.

* * *

"Father, may I speak to you in private?"

Lord Malfoy glanced at Draco, a faint disdain stirring to life easily at the sight of his son. The aristocrat sighed. "I suppose so, Draco," he replied curtly. "What is it then?"

Draco licked his lips. He had been preparing for this moment, the moment in which everything would change, when he exposed his brat of a sister and could finally be accepted into his father's affections again. When he could be the favorite. When he could be loved, too.

"It's Hermione," he said. Lord Malfoy's gaze sharpened and he frowned, turning on him. "I am afraid she is in danger."

"Danger?" Lord Malfoy demanded, eyes widening. "Danger of _what?"_

"Of herself."

His father's eyes – so much like his own – narrowed. "What are you talking about, Draco?" he said suspiciously.

"I saw her recently," Draco said. "I was walking along the third floor and she was with Master Riddle, in the locked music room-"

Before he could go any farther, however, Lord Malfoy laughed – loudly and callously. His colleagues, who had finally caught up to them, exchanged intrigued looks and amused smiles. And his father's good humor ceased abruptly.

"Do you truly think I am foolish enough to believe you, Draco?" he sneered in a quiet hiss. "I am well aware of the envy you harbor for your sister. This is just another one of your schemes to trick her into trouble-"

"But it isn't," Draco said urgently, his ears turning pink when the other gentlemen chuckled behind them. Righteous anger bubbled in him like hot lava. "I'm telling the truth. I saw them together-"

"Silence, Draco," Lord Malfoy interrupted sharply. "You're making a spectacle of yourself, as well as your family-"

"I am telling _the truth," _Draco cried out.

"Hold your tongue!" snarled Lord Malfoy, and his wand was out in a flash, leveled on Draco. His colleagues were roaring now, obviously already having had a bit too drink and enjoying this entirely too much. Lord Malfoy absorbed the attention, straightening haughtily. "How dare you shame our family like this – and in front of guests? Have you gone mad?"

"No. I simply don't understand why you won't believe me," Draco spat. "Or perhaps it is because you love your perfect daughter so much that you cannot see what is right in front of you."

He chuckled. "And what is right in front of me, hm?"

"A whore!"

Lord Malfoy's smirk vanished, along with any traces of humor. The silence that followed Draco's outburst was electric and thick like steel cotton. Draco's heart stuttered at the utter rage glittering in his father's cold blue eyes. "Gentlemen," Lord Malfoy whispered. "I do apologize for my son's poor conduct. But I believe, in the name of Lord Dumbledore, that an immediate correction of his habits are in order… What methods would you suggest?"

Draco blanched. "I – no, please, I-I-I didn't mean to- y-y-you must believe me, father, p-please-"

"The Cruciatus Curse, I think," said Lord Dolohov in a deep rumble, "would reform your son, Lord Malfoy."

Lord Malfoy smiled coldly. "An excellent suggestion."

The Lords of Dumbledore's Court closed around him then, and any maids or servants within the vicinity vanished. Draco let a sob escape him, sliding down to the floor and curling into a ball in a fruitless effort to protect himself. His cries were heard, but not heeded.

His father was the first to punish him.

* * *

"Oh, thank you so much, Jamie," said Hermione earnestly, pulling the girl in for a tight embrace. Jamie beamed. "You're an absolute gem."

"Naw, I'm just good at remembering things," Jamie said modestly. Hermione smiled and hugged her once more, before dismissing the girl with a reminder to repeat this event to no one.

Master Riddle extracted a large camera from his satchel, lifting it to his eye and peering through the lens into the dark depths of the vault. He snapped a photograph once, twice, and another two times for good measure. He captured evidence of the ten thousand and one-hundred fifty pounds of laudanum hidden in Malfoy Manor – the stash that supplied Dumbledore's Court and kept every single one of his followers high for hours on end, day after day.

Soon, Rita Skeeter would publish their evidence, and the entire Wizarding World would know of Dumbledore's Court's corruption.

"They're coming," Hermione warned from her post at the door, where she peered into the outside corridor. Lord Malfoy and his colleagues had come late, and she did not know what could have delayed them. Still, they had needed the extra time to break into the vault. "I hear their footsteps."

"I'm finished anyway," Master Riddle said. "Come, we'll go to the parlor." He gave her the Invisibility Cloak and cast a Disenchantment Charm over himself, grasping her hand and guiding them out of the door just as Lord Malfoy and a dozen other Lords entered the hall.

They stole away to the Atrium.

This time when she and Master Riddle arrived at the abandoned Ministry, all the rebels were already there but not assembled in a circle, instead conversing rapidly in small random groups with clear anxiety. The thousand torches illuminating the vast hall flickered. The sound of layering voices was multiplied, resounding off the towering walls around them and echoing. Master Riddle frowned at the unfolding chaos before him.

"I'm going to find out what's going on," he said, letting go of her. He nodded at the broken fountain of the witch and wizard at the end of the Atrium. "Stay there." Then he was striding away, moving through the discombobulated crowd and shouting out commands. The rebels began to organize.

Hermione turned away from the commencing meeting and went to the fountain, where she could see a hunched over figure slumped on the stone bench. Going closer, she saw the figure was none other than Gregorovitch. "Mr. Gregorovitch," she said, relieved. The old wizard gave a start, as if he had been deep in a very pleasant daydream, and he smiled up at her. "How do you do?"

"Well enough, I suppose." He tipped his top hat to her. "And you, Lady Hermione?"

"Well enough."

Gregorovitch chuckled and she sat beside him, glad to have found a friend in all of today's commotion. Her world had been turned upside down. Soon, her family name would be destroyed, as well as her father. Lord Malfoy would be sentenced to Azkaban for what he had done. And it was all because of her.

Or perhaps it was all…_thanks_ to her.

Was it wrong for her to think that?

Madame Defarge presently skipped around La Guillotine, throwing flowers into the air and hooting her optimism.

It was unbelievable. The four walls of Hermione's chambers were finally behind her. As were the rules, the dreary manor, Lord Malfoy, and having to spend nights wide awake directly to the crack of dawn. She was _free_. She was safe.

She felt as if there was a catch.

_Eve did not stay in the Garden of Eden for long, _Satan felt inclined to point out. _And your ten times worse than she was._

His statement did nothing for her humor, as usual.

* * *

The Lords of Dumbledore's Court had left. Laudanum laced their veins, as well as the master's of Malfoy manor. Hermione Malfoy's chambers were empty.

"You see, father?" Draco said softly from behind Lord Malfoy. His body felt as if it had been burned alive, then plunged in ice water only to be burned time and time again. His beating had been severe. His hatred for his sister had increased tenfold as a result.

But the fury in Lord Malfoy's eyes cooled the blazing inferno in his chest, bringing a smug smirk to Draco's lips.

"I told you what she really was," he murmured.

* * *

"Oh, I can't believe you did that," Tonks ogled, after Hermione had told her account of tonight's events. Dobby and Winky were starstruck as well, cross-legged on the gleaming floor, their pointed ears attentive. "You two barely made it!"

"It was close," she agreed. "But in the end, we got out and came here."

"Well, that certainly does sound like some night." Tonks stretched with a wide yawn, arching her back and kicking out her legs – which were still in a pair of gentleman's trousers. A part of Hermione wanted to ask Tonks what she was doing wearing them, but the overwhelming part of her was too shy to try.

"I think I'll go find Remus," announced Tonks, getting to her feet. She shook Hermione's hand with purpose. "I'll see you at the next meeting, yeah?"

"Um, yes. Yeah." She nodded. "I'll be here."

Tonks beamed. "Great."

She left, melting into the crowd to search for her husband, and Dobby and Winky followed soon after (although not without a number of jaunty bows and curtsies to her first). Gregorovitch had departed early. Master Riddle was speaking to Severus Snape again. Hermione hummed the song he used to play deep into the night, while she secretly listened from outside of the music room. Back then, she would have never imagined that she could end up here. As a rebel.

And she was a rebel, wasn't she?

Almost as soon as the thought had formed, Remus Lupin's words came back to her, however, making her think twice. _I don't understand why he recruited you, but you're too soft, too delicate... You'll see things that can't be forgotten._

Soft. Delicate.

A burden.

They all saw her that way, even after what she'd done tonight and at the House of Black. She had yet to prove them wrong.

Was there anything _to_ prove wrong?

Surely, there was…

She frowned.

"Hermione."

Looking up, Hermione found Master Riddle standing before her. How did he always sneak up on her like that? she wondered. And why did he look so..._afraid__?_

"Hermione," he said lowly, "We have to go back."

_What? _Her head whipped up and she stared at him, feeling as if she'd just been dropped from a warm pool of sun and straight into the arctic tundra. Her stomach clenched. "What do you mean 'go back'?"she said sharply.

"I made a mistake," he said, blinking rapidly, a horrible confusion and realization on his features. "It's stupid, but I forgot to take my trunk. There's evidence inside it – evidence of the resistance and all our plans – and Lord Malfoy will surely find and investigate it once he realizes you are gone. We'll be ruined if he gets to it before we do."

Hermione breathed in deeply, still dazed from the knowledge that they had to return to Malfoy Manor – the very place she had only just said her goodbyes to. "Alright," she finally said, warily. "We'll go back, retrieve your trunk, and be gone again within an hour."

"Of course."

Fine. She could do that. She was a rebel; no mission was too large or threatening. "Let's go then, before he finds it." She gathered her skirts and stood, leading the way to one of the fireplaces. Voldemort followed.

* * *

"Stay here," Master Riddle said, kissing her very gently before he stepped away. "I'll be back in a moment."

"Alright," Hermione whispered. He glanced back at her, and she thought he might say something else, but in the next instant he had turned away and disappeared down the dark hall.

She waited in the lightless parlor, squirming and wringing her hands. She wished to be out of her dress, in a nightgown readying for sleep – although, if she had been, dreams would surely have evaded her. Her blood pumped too fast to let her doze.

A low moan reached her ears.

She jumped, accidentally snapping the heel of her shoe down on a marble tile and freezing when the noise rang out like a deafening crash. The moan sounded again. Hearing it this time, however, Hermione realized it was not a moan at all, but a cry. A godless whimpering.

"_Oh…oh…"_

She knew that she should not do it, but she couldn't help following the sound to find its source. She told herself she would be back in the parlor before Master Riddle could ever realize she'd left it.

Hermione continued through the long winding halls silently, keeping her skirts lifted so that the gossamer would not scratch the polished floors or trip her. The whimpers came from upstairs. She steeled herself and kept going, to first the second floor and then the third.

To the music room.

Her hand shook as she reached to turn the doorknob, but not for loss of control this time – she trembled out of fear. Because the whimpers were not whimpers, but sobs. Because she detected the choking scent of smoke and it twisted her stomach with terror.

_This is my house, _she thought to herself, trying to instill confidence. _I have lived here for over a decade. I have nothing to fear._

With this in mind, she pushed open the door and lit the pitch-black room awaiting her with a nonverbal _Lumos. _The gaslights dotted along the walls ignited at once, revealing all to her in a sudden throw of soft light.

She found the piano smashed to pieces and smoking.

_No. _Hermione put her hand to her mouth and slumped against the threshold, too cold to cry and shaking so hard she could barely stay standing. _He knows. _Lord Malfoy, somehow, knew about her and Master Riddle. He knew and he had communicated her to this by setting the piano they shared night after night on… on fire.

The flames were extinguished, but the rolling smoke remained.

"You're back, are you?"

Hermione jumped and spun around, to find her mother Narcissa huddled against a broken cello and cradling an empty Firewhiskey bottle as if it were her infant. Narcissa stifled a sob in the sleeve of her handsome dress, bowing in half like a terrible agony clawed and tried to devour her from the inside. Perhaps one did.

"Mother," Hermione said quietly. The word was foreign on her lips. She forgot the destroyed piano and approached Narcissa warily, kneeling once before her. A ring of empty brandies and other nameless liquor bottles circled them. This was the closest they'd ever been to each other.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"_You _happened." The vicious venom with which Narcissa snarled these words made her recoil. Her mother's eyes were bloodshot with drink and torment. "Your…your father saw that you'd left, and he went into a rage. He wouldn't listen to me. But he never l-l-listens to me, does he?" She looked bitter. "He never has. He never shall." Here, she moved to take a swig from her bottle, but seeing it vacant of its cloudy elixir, tossed the thing.

The bottle shattered against the wall, staining the paper, and Hermione stared at it wordlessly. And she realized what she must ask before going away forever. She realized what she could not leave unsaid. What could not be left unknown.

"Mother," she said softly, "why do you hate me?"

Narcissa tensed. Her eyes, which always evaded and skipped and did all they could to avoid the sight of her, now met her daughter's for the first time since…since Hermione could ever remember.

"Mother?"

"I will tell you." Narcissa, even in the throws of alcohol, retained dignity and grace. She scooted up, straightening against the cello serving as a makeshift chair. Her long salt-and-pepper hair had half fallen out of its bun and flowed around her shoulders beautifully. She was too stiff to be anything like Aunty Bella, Hermione distantly realized.

Had Aunty Bella been right about Narcissa?

"Hermione," Narcissa began quietly. "I recognize that I am a terrible mother to you." Hermione frowned and opened her mouth to interject, but her mother raised a hand for patience, stopping her. "However, your father is a terrible father to Draco. And while I cannot make excuses for him or myself, I can tell you that I have reasons for resenting you." She sighed. "Even now, I see that my words are hurting you and yet I derive satisfaction from it. Do you see how truly horrible I am? No, perhaps not yet. But you will. And you will hate me as I have hated you for sixteen years.

"Lord Malfoy has never been an attentive – or faithful – husband," she said, in a distant way that implied she had come to terms with this fact a time ago and long since grown accustomed to it. "Even in our early years of marriage, he was always off in Hogsmeade buying cheap whores or in some other country on business, doing the same thing. He was hardly ever here. When I gave birth to Draco, he missed that, as well.

"I remember very clearly when everything turned for the worse. Draco had recently had his first birthday. Bella had been caught sharing the bed of a married Spanish man while visiting in Venezuela – naturally, her scandals came all the way back to England… And Bellatrix's husband's family, the Blacks, was the subject of gossip for months. Our family, by association, was humiliated. Your father had been away for nearly a month by then and I was becoming extremely lonely. I had only the help to talk to, and _each _and _every_ call I sent out was rejected. I was the sister of poor, disgraced Bellatrix Lestrange. Therefore, I was disgraced by association.

"I was also, I believe, beginning to lose my mind. I craved conversation with someone of standing so badly, so desperately that I just began to drink the emptiness in me away. I ignored my son. I made bad choices." Narcissa's eyes glistened and she turned her face away, just as the tinkling outline of a tear fell down her cheek. "When you are lonely," she said hoarsely. "You are consumed by self-pity. You will do anything for yourself. _Anything._"

Hermione stared at her mother, feeling a strangely supernatural sense of doom approaching her as surely as a scheduled train approaches the railroad tracks. "And what did you do, mother?" she asked cautiously.

"I-" Narcissa's voice hitched on a sob, which she quickly replaced with a meditative deep breath, shutting her eyes. "I had a lot to drink one day. Too much. So I went down t-to the stables. There was a Squib there who I liked to watch sometimes. It had always been an…an innocent thing. He was handsome for well, what he was, and I would sit by for a few hours just watching. His name was Wendell Granger and he would s-s-smile at me. He made me feel special for the first time in so, so long…

"When I went down that one day," Narcissa said, quieter. "I was intoxicated. I judged poorly. I-"

"You slept with him."

"Yes." Narcissa Malfoy gazed back at her daughter steadily, tears gone and dried. "I slept with the stable boy. And the next morning, Wendell told me he loved someone else. That we…that what had happened couldn't happen again. As if- as if _I _were planning to continue it. Ha!" But she was not laughing. There was a faded pain, an aged embarrassment that never quite died haunting her reminiscent stare, in fact. "He made me angry. So that same day, I went down to Dumbledore's Court and said I had been assaulted by one of my help-"

"No." Hermione pulled back, trying to get away from what was sure to come. From what her mother had condemned the Squib, had condemned her _true _father to. "If you ever loved me, mother, then you won't tell me this-"

"_But I haven't!"_

Hermione stared at her.

"I…never…never loved you, you stupid, _stupid_ girl." It was as if a dam had exploded – and now everything behind it rushed into the open in an avalanche of pandemonium. "How could I?" Narcissa gasped. "You were the result of my foolishness, of an embarrassment, of a humiliation that I still wish so hard to forget. And every time I look at you, I see my mistake. I see him. I feel all that pain _everywhere_ all over again. I had him condemned to death and I would condemn you too, if I could."

"You loved him." Hermione said the words past the hurt ripping holes inside her and Satan's screaming. She shook her head. "How could you do something so horrible to someone you loved?" she demanded. "How could you be so cruel, so heartless?"

"Because he hurt me first." Narcissa returned her gaze defiantly. "You think I'm evil, Hermione. You think that you would never do something so selfish – but you're wrong. Once you understand the damage loneliness can do, you will see that."

"I will never see what you see."

"I tried to save you from this pain," Narcissa said desperately. "When I learned that I was with child, I-I wanted to get rid of you, but Lord Malfoy noticed before I could and he believed you were his. So what could I tell him? He was so happy when he learned you were a girl. He said he would stay home and he fawned over me, buying me presents and always making sure I was comfortable. He had always wanted a daughter." She sobbed harder, shuddering and rocking and curling into herself like there was nowhere else to go, like there was no one but herself to turn to. "Now I know why, don't I?"

"You've always known." Hermione tried to turn herself to stone, as Master Riddle did time and time again to hide his real face. To be untouchable. To snip away her emotions as one cut the thread for sewing. To drain her voice of vulnerability.

But she was not Master Riddle.

"Why didn't you ever protect me?" she shouted, furious and hurt and hating all at once. "_Why?"_

"Don't ask me questions you already know the answer to, Hermione." Narcissa looked very tired suddenly. "Do not make me hurt you more than I already have."

She was silent.

Then, Narcissa reached into the neckline of her dress, past the diamond necklace and lace, to extract a wicked silver dagger that was curved and so sharp Hermione felt its cut run deep into her flesh from simply looking at it. Narcissa caressed the edge with one long finger. Blood beaded on her white skin.

"I have always hated you, Hermione," she murmured. "For proving to me what power loneliness harnesses. For taking my husband from me." And it was almost as tender, as affectionate as an _I love you._

Hermione wished it was that.

_Your father has disappointed your mother, _Aunty Bella had said. But which father did she mean? The one who was biologically Hermione's? Or the one who had been creeping into her room, to touch himself as he watched her sleep since she was three?

"Neglect, mother," she corrected quietly. "It was neglect that consumed you. Not loneliness." And she closed her eyes. She would not run from death. She would be brave.

She would be an English flower.

A garbled gasp, followed by a splash of wetness on her forehead, persuaded Hermione to open her eyes. She stared into Narcissa's own blue gaze, confused, and touched the liquid dribbling down her face. When she pulled her fingers away, her white gloves were crimson.

Narcissa slumped backward and hit the hard floor with a harsh, resounding thud. Hermione was as still as the knife protruding out of her mother's bosom. Stunned, she watched blood seep out of the blade lodged deep in a pretty blue dress and bloom all around it. Then the blood trickled onto the floor and made a pool. An endless pool.

She had not heard her brother's footsteps rush inside.

"I found her!" Draco cried, exulted and cupping his hands around his mouth to boom the cry again. "Come here, she's in the music room-" But his throat choked on the next words.

Draco's breath escaped him in a winded _whoosh. _His pale blue eyes slid from their bleeding mother to her. "What have you done?" he demanded, voice cracking and a pitch too high. His entire body trembled. "What – did – you – _do, _damn it?" he screamed.

"Everything," Hermione said tonelessly. "So it seems, Draco."

At this, her brother looked enraged, but another glance at Narcissa stopped his temper in its tracks. He rushed over and shoved Hermione aside, crashing to his knees in the blood and scooping their mother into his arms, holding her limp body to him and cradling it.

"No, no, no," he gasped, burying his face in Narcissa's shoulder and shaking. "Please no. Mother? Mother? Mother, please come back. You promised you wouldn't leave me here. How could you leave me? You promised…"

Hermione looked away from her hysterical half-brother. She, rather detachedly, plucked off her red gloves and threw them onto what remained of the piano. She must… she must focus. She had to get to Master Riddle before-

"Hermione."

He did not call her angel.

Hermione rose her head, meeting Lord Malfoy's cold grey eyes a mere second before a hard slap across the face sent the world spinning. Her mouth opened in surprise. She coughed and dots of blood flew out in spatters.

"You are a disgrace," Lord Malfoy hissed over the stinging in her cheek. "You will be locked in your room for two weeks straight and will only be permitted to leave it for baths. Your meals will be limited to two each day. You will never see Master Riddle again."

_Master Riddle? _A flood of cold rushed through her. "Where is he?" she said anxiously, hearing nothing but the pumping of her heart and Draco's wailing behind them. "_Where is he?"_

Lord Malfoy smiled.

"You killed him." The three words murdered her. Hermione touched her heart, where the newspaper clipping of Master Riddle rested, and she felt that the organ had died in her chest when Lord Malfoy laughed softly. _He killed him._

Master Riddle was dead.

She was dead.

Everything was ruined. Over.

"I've made sure that you will never see Master Riddle again," the monster she once called _daddy_ repeated. He jerked his chin at the open door, dismissing her. "Go. I would send you to a monastery, but I regret to say that they do not accept whores."

Hermione didn't say another word and fled the scene, back straighter than a rod and eyes brimming with traitorous tears all the way to her chambers. Maids and servants watched her pass wordlessly, and it seemed to take centuries to get to her bedroom. When she did arrive, however, she wished that Narcissa's planned abortion had been successful.

For where the enchanted painting containing all her precious Muggle literature and all that was dear to her had once been, now furious marks of black and green slashed the wall in its place.

The markings spelled _SLUT._

* * *

**AN: Yah, um, don't kill me. **

**Alternate title for this chapter: Shit Hits the Fan. Like I said earlier. **

**Comments on Wormtail's disgusting infection? Flashback!Tom? I know we were all wondering about Narcissa and Hermione; now that that's all said and done, how is the general populace feeling, hm? Any Draco sympathizers out there? Lord Malfoy is a big mean snake, isn't he? *tsk tsk***

**Update for the Task coming soon and BHC coming even faster. Be a bitch ass & review below! **

**KISSES!  
ImmortalObsession**


	12. Make Thee

******AN: Hello again, my lovelies! *puts on Disney crown and burst into song* You're all gems... but you already knew that, didn't you? ;)**

******Run along now, my little candied shippers, you!**

* * *

_"And what shoulder, & what art,_

_Could twist the sinews of thy heart?_

_And when thy heart began to beat,_

_What dread hand? & what dread feet?_

_What the hammer? what the chain, _

_In what furnace was thy brain?_

_What the anvil? what dread grasp, _

_Dare its deadly terrors clasp! _

_When the stars threw down their spears _

_And water'd heaven with their tears: _

_Did he smile his work to see?_

_Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"  
- _William Blake, ___the Tyger_

* * *

_London, England_  
_six years prior 1896_

It was quite a time to be out of money, Tom observed.

Winter was cruel and without mercy. Her splintering blizzards and molar-sized hail battered the streets of London both day and night, driving the usual parole into warm inns and indoor shops. Tom was forced to bear the cold though. Nobody wanted a half-frozen street rat scaring off customers from their store.

But as always, he had a plan B.

Tom had purchased a used violin with the money he stole months ago, the day he and his comrades were split up by police and he was chased clear across London only to never see them again. Merope, his mother, once loved to hear him play violin for her. Chopin's nocturnes were her favorite.

He'd spent half his time swanking around London, watching false beggars hoodwinking women with kind hearts and well-to-do gentlemen coerce small boys into alleys at the price of a few shillings. This time around though, he had a violin case _and _a brown trunk to carry on his shoulders.

When the cashbox money finally ran out, he began to play.

He played all sorts of songs on the violin, from the nocturnes to Debussy to Beethoven to Mozart. He didn't need sheet music. The notes came to him through memory. He could see the staffs filled with black quarter notes and staccato bridges, the long, swelling crescendo that broke listeners' hearts like toothpicks right inside his closed eyelids. And when he couldn't think of a song, he just made one up.

With his handsome looks, which he was well aware of and never failed to use to his advantage, Tom easily attracted the pity of London just as well – and all her citizens' wallets.

Tonight, however, was an unlucky one.

Tom knew it was his birthday. However, December 31st was still a day like any other, or so he told himself. Because there were no luxuries when you were homeless. Not even on your birthday.

He caressed his violin on his lap: a babe of mahogany and fine horse-hair strings.

The sound of stomping footsteps registered on Tom's ears and his head snapped up, taking in the gang situating itself around him. They were all men – beggars, too, by the looks of it – and while Tom would have jumped up to fight one of them, he knew he could not take them all in a million years. He was probably more than ten years their junior and he knew he was scrawny from malnourishment – nothing but a useless palette of skin and bones. Street décor.

One of the men, with a thick blonde beard, held his hand out and raised two bushy eyebrows expectantly. "Hand it over, chump."

Tom slowly looked down at his violin, then back at the men. One cracked his knuckles menacingly and Tom swallowed, gently lowering the lid over the violin and snapping the clasps. Then the case was ripped out of his hands and it was confirmed he didn't have anything else, so the gangsters swaggered off, laughing, and he watched them go through furious narrowed eyes.

If only he still had his wish-magic.

But like with all good things that had eventually ended too.

His mouth twisted into a deep scowl as he bit back frustrated tears and rage, and he huddled into himself, teeth chattering. Drowned in the shadow of the alley. He felt as if it was the shadow of the whole world, bearing down on him. Demanding more than he could give. Trying to scoop out his soul so it could leave him totally bereft.

He _hated _this. He hated them all. The whole world and everyone in it. He'd kill those responsible for this, for doing this to him. Uncle Morfin and all the Malfoys and Lestranges. He refused to die before they did.

Another pair of footsteps, softer than before.

_Trying to sneak up on him._

"I ain't got anything," he muttered through his sleeves, where he'd buried his tear-stained face and gone to for some warmth in this wretched weather. "Go away!" he barked, then coughed hard like an old man when his broncitus stormed up with a congested vengeance. His throat burned for something wet and warm.

"My dear boy, I don't want anything from you."

Tom snickered humorlessly. It was a cold, demented sound no child should ever be able to produce. "No? What then? You want to watch me touch myself or somethin sick like that? I'll kill you first." Hands clumsy from frostbite and fatigue, he scrambled for his jemmy, but he couldn't seem to get a hold on it-

The man crouched before him. Instantly, Tom jumped into action and skittered back, banging into the brick wall and finally whipping out the short-blade jemmy, jamming it up threateningly. "Get any closer and I'll slice your throat, old man," he hissed.

The man, who turned out to be a gentleman with long silvery hair and a matching beard, peered at him through fogged, crescent-shaped spectacles. "You've got magic," he eventually said after a long pause. "I can sense it."

Tom froze.

_He's a wizard._

He had not seen any magical folk in over seven years, and here on this night, on his meaningless birthday, fate seemed to take a turn… in his favor? Perhaps so. Perhaps not.

He knew better than to get his hopes up too quickly though.

"Of course I do," he replied after a beat. His voice was thin and scratchy. He swallowed some saliva to smooth it. "'Cause I'm a wizard."

The gentleman nodded. He wore velvet robes, the color of violets and much too bright for a murky place like this. "As am I," he said. "Tell me, my boy. Are you Muggleborn, halfblood, or Pureblood?"

The question appeared to be innocent.

Tom knew better than that.

For an eleven year old boy, he was an amazing analyzer, and he could practically read thoughts for all that he gauged from just one glimpse into someone's eyes, from a word or two. He knew people like he knew stealing and violin playing and books. He knew them by heart.

He knew this gentleman would not take kindly to anything less than the noblest of blood.

"Pureblood," said Tom, a seamless lie the gentleman smiled at and easily believed. "I lost my family awhile ago though, when I was real little… in a fire, so I… I don't remember the rest of my name. I don't remember much at all."

The gentleman nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, you have been alone for quite a while, haven't you?" he mused. "What _is_ your name?"

"Tom."

"Well, Tom," said the gentleman, rising to a stand once more. Tom got up with him. "Why don't you come along with me? I know a fine place for young wizards to learn all sorts of things."

"Things like what?" Tom asked suspiciously.

The gentleman smiled. "Magical things, naturally," he replied. "Spells, enchantments, potion-making, charms, hexes. I could go on forever, should you like."

Tom didn't smile.

"You'll need a last name, Tom," the gentleman continued, as they left the alley and began to walk the rather empty street. Snow and smog clouded the city scheme. "Something to single you out."

Single him out? Tom found he liked the sound of that. "Riddle," he said, recalling his father's surname easily. No wizard would know it. "I'll be Tom Riddle."

"Very well." The gentleman stopped them just before they could cross the road and turned to Tom, holding out a hand regally. Tom shook it, but a moment later he had to fight not to snatch his hand back, to not burn his skin until he was left with clean, raw pink flesh and rid of the dirty feeling that'd crawled over him like a six-legged insect.

"I suppose I should introduce myself," the gentleman said kindly. He seemed to be more of a friendly grandfather than the murderer of millions. "I am Dumbledore, Lord of the English Wizarding World, and I am very, very pleased to meet you Tom Riddle. How do you do?"

* * *

_The Atrium, England_  
_March of 1896_

Voldemort hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.

He kept hearing Narcissa Malfoy's words, resounding through his head like an ominous war song: _When I learned that I was with child, I wanted to get rid of you, but Lord Malfoy noticed before I could and believed you were his._

Hermione Malfoy was a halfblood.

Just like him.

Last night, when he left Hermione in the parlor and pretended to retrieve the nonexistent trunk filled with 'vital information,' he had taken as much time as he could. He had stalled. He had gone to his former guestroom and sat on the bed, turning his wand over and over in his hands. Remembering her imperfect smile, remembering the way her flesh made his burn as if on fire, how she caught him when he lied and outwitted him without even knowing it.

And then he'd gone back to kill her.

But she wasn't there, and he was relieved and worried and furious all at once. He went up the stair to the music room on the third floor, where he knew she'd be, and he found her with Narcissa on the floor. He heard their entire conversation. He saw Hermione accept death without any fear in her steady eyes. He saw Narcissa Malfoy, esteemed wife of the widely-respected aristocrat and prized follower of Dumbledore, kill herself with a dagger.

Then Lord Malfoy arrived and he had to go.

There was a strange, swelling relief in him. It ached to have Hermione back. It rejoiced to know that she was no Malfoy and that she was only partly related to the family he was destined to eliminate. It whispered _Hermione Granger _soft as a prayer.

Hermione Granger.

He did not have to kill any Hermione Granger.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, England_  
_one week later_

Hermione hadn't spoken a word in days.

She was, after all, not allowed to speak to anyone, nor was anyone allowed to speak to her. Although Draco did stop by a few days past, to call her horrible names through the door and damn her to hell for murdering their mother. She deserved it. Because she did kill Narcissa… in ways.

Draco did not know she was only half his sister.

She did not feel inclined to tell him.

She wasted the seconds, the minutes and the hours gazing into space from the comfort of her bed. The duvet strangled her where Bridget had tucked the goose-feather stuffed edges in tight. But she didn't push it away. She let the blankets swallow her. She did not care for anything but the past. For anything but the memories.

The memories of Master Riddle.

Hermione traced a finger over her breast, where the newspaper clipping of him rested. Looking at it hurt her deep inside. It drove a knife through the soul and made her want to scream. But she was silent as the grave.

Her thoughts were silent too. Miss Pross, Psyche, Madame Defarge, and Satan had not spoken in the seven days she'd been sentenced to her chambers. Lord Malfoy did not come to see her once – and she was not sorry for that.

She did not wonder how the resistance was faring. She thought of nothing but Master Riddle, even if this was selfish.

Another day passed. Then more.

Hermione was awoken by Bridget, who avoided her eyes and did not say a word as she bathed and dressed and groomed her like a little doll. But who would want to speak to the family slut? She found herself smiling at that funny bit of humour, but the smirk died fast when she recalled that she had no one to share her joke with. When she recalled that she had no reason to smile.

She stared at the ceiling when Bridget sat her down at the vanity to brush out her long brown hair. The mirror held nothing.

Life held nothing.

Another day went by, with another dressing for daytime and another dressing for bed. She wore shapeless black mourning dresses. She ate two meals, but each one came back up soon after. Food would not stay down, not for a broken heart. Not for anything.

What if Narcissa had been right about loneliness? About neglect?

She stifled the thought.

What if _she_ really was like Aunty Bella? Evil? A murderer? She'd killed Aunty Bella and she made Narcissa kill herself…

She quenched that thought, too. She lay back in bed on the twelfth day, shut her eyes, and remembered.

"_May I kiss you goodbye, Lady Hermione?" _

"_You smell like roses… You will ask, won't you?"_

"_We can chat, if you'd like." The full-force of Master Riddle's dark eyes was riveted solely on her now. She forced herself not to squirm. "But if you find yourself terribly bored by me, do feel free to go, Lady Hermione. I'd hate to torment you."_

"_Try one more time, Hermione. I promise it will be better."_

But would it ever be better?

"_My Hermione." The words were soft._

She rolled back her head and looked out the window, where the curtains had been opened to let in daylight. She could see the sun. She stared at it, until its brilliance made the eyes see white and the pillow was warm under her. She slowly wrapped her hands around her neck.

"_You are foolish and naïve. You do not know anything. You don't know the pain and the suffering and the hunger – or perhaps you do and choose to ignore it, like your pompous father. You don't know me."_

Now she would never know him.

"_I cannot even begin to understand you."_

That made two of them. She smiled slightly.

"_So you cannot _think_ that you are ready," he whispered. "You must _be_ ready, Hermione."_

She felt ready to die.

_I love you, Master Riddle. _It was not a memory, but her own thoughts. Alive and blazing and tormenting her. She loved him as the trees loved sunshine. She loved him like nothing this world had ever seen. She loved his evil and his good, because he accepted hers as well. Because he made her feel like the perfect contrast, like the study of light verse dark: _chiascuro_.

Her hands dropped back to the mattress. She was too weak to do it.

On the thirteenth day, she was dressed and ate breakfast and vomited the meal all over the polished wood floorjust as quickly. Bridget was worried. She would have stayed there sitting in her own reeking mess if her handmaid didn't beg her to go with her to the washroom. Well, if Bridget insisted, then…

Lord Malfoy, who finally took account of her sickness, ordered two more meals to be added to her daily consummation to make up for those that refused to settle with her.

She stared at the diary Master Riddle may or may not have actually given her.

It was on the fifteenth day when Hermione was bent over a vase, half-digested food and tears rushing out of her while Bridget held back her hair – that an epiphany struck. The epiphany also stayed with her long after Bridget brought the mop and washed the floors. It stayed long after her handmaid left even.

She touched her belly thoughtfully.

_Master Riddle._

She had been very, very sick for days now. But she had no fever, no bug.

Master Riddle.._. _

Hermione slumped forward onto the vanity, knocking aside expensive fragrance bottles and the vase of roses, resting her pounding head in her arms and breathing deeply. Her grief threatened to eclipse all else. She had felt nothing but dull pain for nearly two weeks. But now she felt something else.

She felt Master Riddle's child inside her.

* * *

Hermione was sound asleep when the bedroom door threw itself open.

She started awake immediately and jerked upward in her bed, wide eyes fastening to the figure in the doorway and filling with fright. She forgot all sorrows for a heart -pounding instant, staring into Lord Malfoy's face. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. He had a pipe in his right hand.

"Angel," he greeted. He came forward and she saw that he was in pristine condition, in a gentleman's suit despite the late hour. He dropped the pipe on a curtain, where it burned a ragged hole through the fabric. He smelled of marijuana and laudanum. She inched back until the headboard stopped her from going any farther.

Lord Malfoy unbuckled his trousers.

Hermione stared at him in horror, frozen even when Lord Malfoy continued to approach her with lust thick in his gaze. She smelled the laudanum rolling off him in waves, polluting the very air around them.

He had finally come for the prize he spent years yearning for.

"Don't struggle," he whispered, coming over her. His pants were hanging open and he smoothed a hand over her head, as he did when she was a child, but now his touch was rough and clumsy from toxins. It continued down over her nightgown, past her breasts to her stomach.

To her baby.

To Master Riddle's son.

And that was when the fog loneliness had swept over her eyes vanished.

"Don't you lay _one_ _finger _on him," she hissed, grabbing Lord Malfoy's hands and trying to throw him off her. Lord Malfoy snarled and snatched himself out of her grip, slapping her hard two times. She shrieked. She thrashed when he tried to touch her again, snapping her teeth at him and kicking out her legs as if caught in paroxysms. He crushed her body underneath his knees.

"You will do as I say," Lord Malfoy said, panting and gritting his teeth. "Be still."

"Get off me!"

He tried to kiss her then, but Hermione whipped out curled fingers and raked her nails across his cheek, eliciting a shocked exclamation from the lord. He reeled back, spitting like an angry cat. Five claw marks stood out vivid red against his pale cheek, framing his enraged eyes.

"You ungrateful wench-" He was cut off as she pushed out her legs, shoving him from the bed to the floor.

She struggled to her feet while Lord Malfoy attempted to right himself, stumbling to the bedside dresser and grabbing her wand from the top. She pointed it at him – and he stilled. "Leave," she commanded, voice shrill and eyes wild. "A-a-at this instant."

His lip curled. "You dare order your own father?"

"You are no father of mine, Lord Malfoy."

He glared at her. Then, without another word, he stormed from the room, slamming the door shut so the walls quaked. Hermione cast a Locking Charm on it immediately; she, in fact, cast an entire array of all different protective enchantments and wards on her chambers. When that monster attempted to return, he would find him self unable to enter at all.

Hermione's heart and blood raced. She hadn't felt this alive since the night Master Riddle left her world. The only thing able to bring her back to herself had been his son, endangered by Lord Malfoy and cradled inside her. Her baby.

No one was to _ever_ touch her baby.

"Then proper precautions must be taken."

Hermione jumped, startled, and looked around. _Who said that?_

"Me, of course, you silly girl."

And there, grinning at her from the davenport sofa, was Satan. Beside him sat Madame Defarge.

* * *

_The Atrium, underground England_  
_that night_

The news was out.

Voldemort's inside source working at the Daily Prophet, Rita Skeeter, had spent the past week and more preparing their article. He'd given her the evidence of the drugs stored in Lord Malfoy's vault, and she'd made that evidence concrete, going over each infinitesimal detail with a fine-toothed comb and photographic support to boot. She was a well-respected journalist, known for her uncanny ability to get scoops on the most reclusive hermits and to poke her nose wherever she fancied. The woman had no limits.

She was secretly an Animagus as well. And if it were up to Dumbledore, her skin would be hanging on some aristocrat's wall as a fine pelt.

This was why Rita Skeeter had first been drawn to the resistance, to join the underground forces she'd heard only whispers about and the mysterious leader _You-Know-Who. _It was a lucky thing she did, too. Otherwise, Voldemort would have been forced to turn to the Quibbler, a paper that was hardly – if ever – taken seriously.

Rita Skeeter was prohibited from publishing the article until Voldemort gave her his permission to do so, however. For there were still other pieces of his plan waiting to be carried out. Chess pieces that still needed to make their move and slide into place before the king could finally be knocked off his pedestal.

The journalist was impatient, but willing to wait, and she wrote up a faux column on Cleaning Charms to temporarily fill the slot for the next edition of the paper.

Voldemort's other followers made their move.

Slowly, the best of Dumbledore's officials trickled out of existence one by one over the week, just as the tinklings of a piano steadily drift into silence. Those eliminated included Dolohov, Black, Crabbe, Goyle, Carrow, and Zabini. There were six close followers left, but only three would remain when the night was out: Snape, Malfoy, and the Parkinsons. Currently, all of them sans Snape were hiding out. They'd abandoned their Lord to save their own necks. Dumbledore had yet to comment on any of this – a fact that drove Voldemort right up the wall with frustration.

He owled Rita Skeeter an envelope containing one single word: _now. _His heart pounded erratically with anticipation. Finally, after all these years, he could destroy the last piece of the puzzle. He could avenge his parents. He could have everything he ever wanted.

He sat back and waited for the Malfoy family's ruin with a strange emptiness crawling around his chest.

* * *

Hermione looked from Satan to Madame Defarge, measuring and comparing. She swallowed. "Where are Miss Pross and Psyche?" she finally asked.

"Dead." Madame Defarge answered her, clicking her knitting needles for emphasis. A half-complete afghan lay spread across her lap. "Or hiding. Either way, they're not going to bother us for some time."

Satan sniggered.

"Well, what are you doing out here?" she said next.

"Helping you." Madame Defarge set aside her embroidery and crossed her ankles. Her dress was of a different style, something that might have been the height of fashion in the 1700s but was presently only bloodstained. "You do need help, don't you, emmigrant?"

"Well yes, but…" She hesitated. "Where did you come from exactly, if you don't mind my asking?"

"You, naturally." Satan waggled his brows, comically expressive and set over two bright eyes that looked just like beads of blood. "We are products of the imagination gone rogue. Or your oversized id. Whichever definition you prefer is yours-"

"Never mind that," Madame Defarge interrupted, impatiently. "We need to formulate a plan. First, you call up that woman Bridget, Hermione. The manor will need to be free of witnesses tomorrow."

"But what if Bridget sees you?"

"She won't." Satan hopped up, forked tail whipping like a pointy spike about his legs. "We'll keep quiet though, if it helps you concentrate."

"Yes, please do that." She could hardly think with all their blabbering.

"Well?" snapped Madame Defarge.

"Well what?" she said, bewildered.

Madame Defarge scowled. "Pah! Get the maid!"

"Oh. Of course." Her neck heated and she did so, calling on Bridget and hoping that her handmaid would answer despite Lord Malfoy's newest rules. She waited with bated breath while Satan and Madame Defarge plotted from the davenport sofa.

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door.

"Bridget?" Hermione asked.

There was a measly clearing of bodily pathways as Bridget sneezed. "Yes, m'lady," she answered in a secretive, antsy voice.

Hermione opened the door and stepped back, permitting Bridget inside and lowering the wards for an instant as her handmaid entered. She cast an anxious glance around her chambers, but Madame Defarge and Satan had disappeared. As promised.

Bridget was staring at her in earnest concern. "Lady Hermione, are you alright? What did you need?"

"Yes, yes, I'm quite well. Thank you for asking, Bridget…" She paused. "And I do have a request."

"M'lady, I do not believe it would be wise for me to try to acquire more books," Bridget said reluctantly. "After what Lord Malfoy did to the others…"

"Oh no, it's nothing like that," she assured. "I only need you to do a few easy things for me. First, would you dress me? I am giving all of the help a day off tomorrow, but I would like to look my best."

Bridget's eyes bulged. "_All of the help?"_ she repeated, flabbergasted. "But what will Lord Malfoy-?"

"Enough of Lord Malfoy," she said sharply, in such a way that Bridget fell silent at once and regarded her cautiously. Hermione recovered her humour with a quick grin. "Help me get ready, Bridget. I want to look my best," she told her.

"…Yes, m'lady."

Bridget dressed her, lacing the corset and securing all the complex undergarments until all that waited was the dress. "What gown would you like to wear, m'lady?" she queried.

Hermione bit her lip and crossed the room to the vanity, naked crinoline gently bobbing with her strides. She bent down and opened one of the drawers, extracting a garment box with a blue ribbon on it. She pulled the ribbon free and extracted a torn dress next. It was the color of the sky on a glowing summer day, ridden with char-rimmed holes and gaping slits where hands had torn the fabric apart.

It looked to be a lady's nightmare.

"Lord Malfoy sent this to me about a month ago," said Hermione softly. "But Draco got to it first, as you can see. I am quite fond of it though." She turned to Bridget, who had gone pale. "Dress me, please?"

Bridget nodded slowly.

Hermione hummed the finale of Master Riddle's opera as the finishing touches were made, gazing at the diary he'd given her with a gentle smile. She understood why he'd lied to her about it now. All in the world was a lie. People were lies. _She _was a lie, raised to be one person when she was really something else completely.

Neglected.

Malfunctioned.

And always, always… underestimated.

When Bridget began to pull her hair back, a pin in hand, Hermione broke her song. "No, Bridget," she tsked, batting her handmaid's fingers away with the firm slap one used to swat off a pesky fly. "Leave my hair down. I don't want it all tied up."

Bridget frowned, rubbing her fingers. "Yes, m'lady."

"After this," Hermione continued, as her handmaid resumed her work, "you shall notify the entire staff of their leisure day. I do not want to see one of you in the manor tomorrow – and this goes for the house elves, as well."

Bridget nodded.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight and straightening. Bridget's fingers slipped on the emerald amulet she had been securing around Hermione's long neck, clattering to the floor. Bridget hastened to retrieve it. "I almost forgot," said Hermione, "but I wanted to ask you how one would prepare sausage?"

Bridget stared at her as if she had just declared herself the Queen of England and a direct descendant of Merlin – but after a beat, she told her the answer in a careful, halting manner. Hermione thanked her.

"Well, you were very helpful, Bridget," she said, moving to a stand in a pleasing wave of flora and plucking up the pouch of Galleons from her vanity. She offered them to Bridget. "For your troubles."

"No, thank you, m'lady." Bridget's eyes were brimming with confused tears. Oddly, she seemed very sad. "E-excuse me, m'lady." She curtsied and fled.

"That was strange," Hermione murmured to herself, frowning. What did Bridget run off for? She was only trying to be kind.

"It doesn't matter," said Madame Defarge, who had manifested once again, along with Satan. She indicated the vanity. "Retrieve Master Riddle's diary, Hermione. Lucifer here-" Satan scowled darkly at his Christian name. "-and I were devising a plan while you dressed."

Hermione nodded, doing as the woman wished and getting the diary. "And now what?" she said, waiting.

"Now," said Madame Defarge. "Tell me how that diary there makes you feel."

She smiled. "Warm."

"Burn it."

"What?" she said, stunned.

"You know what I said." Madame Defarge's eyes were steely and commanding. "Burn the diary, silly girl. You can keep it no longer."

Hermione swallowed, feeling as if it were her very own heart she was about to torch, but she put the tip of her wand to Master Riddle's music diary with a trembling hand. She could keep it no longer. She could keep this warm part of herself nevermore.

"_Incendio__," _she whispered.

The diary burst into flames.

* * *

**AN: Afraid? I am. Satan and Madame Defarge have me very, very worried, personally… **

***shudders***

**Thank you for reading, dearies. I appreciate it oh so much. Please share your fascinating thoughts in a review below. :)**


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